Harry Potter and the Lost Wall
by The Last Witness
Summary: Something has gone terribly wrong. The Gate is destroyed, the world is different, and new enemies are gathering. Can he learn to survive in a world with magic? Harry and Edward, but not slash, because I can't write it. Reviewing is appreciated. Thank You!
1. Chapter 1

Okay, here is where the disclaimer is supposed to go, right? Hmm. Well, I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or Harry Potter. I'd like to, but I dont. So, no gratuitous lawsuit por favor.

Right... a little set up is needed for this story. This is occuring about two thirds through the last episode, when Ed is attempting to recover Alphonse. The HP universe is at the fourth book, Goblet of Fire. Considering Ed's age, I figured it was about right in order for Ed to be Harry's classmate. Oh, and if you're reviewing, don't bother being polite for the sake of it. I'm a stranger you'll probably never meet, so I'll benefit from your honesty more than anything else. I think I'll have another chapter up in a few days. Thank you!

Chapter 1: Silver Light

He touched the circles on his arms and chest, and he was lost in the light.

"Brother, I'll get you back. No matter what."

He opened his eyes, expecting to see the Gate, the giant stone edifice that he and every alchemist was terrified of, but intimately linked to. He had gone through it, once, and had seen a different world, without alchemy. He didn't know if he would have to again, but he had to try, to do whatever he had to.

The Gate... It...it was ruined!

The massive doorway, made of grey marble, had been riven and split apart. The ground around it, which normally stretched out into an infinite white plain, was rent with great cracks that dark and heavy black smoke, webbed with purple, curled out of. The horizon was shaded, and distant lights flashed and danced in the darkness.

"W-what...the hell..." Ed stammered, his calm determination shattered, "What happened here?" There was a sound of something, like a great machine grinding it's gears. Slowly, the plain disappeared in chunks all around him, leaving him floating on a small island with the gate, surrounded by umbral space. Terror choked off his last words, as the doors, the only part still intact, swung open with twice their normal speed. What the gate revealed was not the usual countless pairs of eyes surrounded by black, but a vast space of darkness. A pinprick-sized light inside of it glowed like a spark.

Frozen with shock, Ed didn't have time to react. Suddenly, as if the doorway had opened to a black hole, he found himself being drawn in.

"Aaah!" Ed screamed, and lashed out with his hands. His fingers scrambled desperately for purchase, but couldn't find anything on the smooth surface of the ground. He was pulled backwards into the Gate. He didn't so much fly, but fall through the darkness, the doorway shrinking steadily in his eyes the further he went. For a second, he saw a flicker, and could have sworn that someone else had fallen in. Then the Gate closed.

…

June in Professor McGonagall's office was usually one step away from absolute chaos. The students had left, but there were piles of papers that needed to have their marks officially entered, OWLs that had to be graded, and an all-around huge mess of practicals that required evaluation. And all this was on top of her duties as deputy headmistress, of inviting magical children to become students after their eleventh birthday. For that, she needed to go to the Room of Names in the library, set up a desk in the center, and address enchanted notes until her hand hurt. The room itself was unusual, constructed similarly to a huge chimney. The sides were hung with great unrolled scrolls, one and a half feet wide and ten feet tall, like poorly-adhered wallpaper. These about halfway filled with names written, in a large loopy handwriting, across the walls. Above the unrolled parchments were hundreds of cubbyholes, each one filled with a tightly bound scroll. McGonagall sat at the librarian's table, next to a stack of these scrolls.

By the light of the dangling lamp that hung down the middle of the shaft, as well as the light of the one window far overhead, she unrolled them, read the names, and wrote them on the letters. She used her own quill, but there was another quill on the desk, one that looked like it was made of gold filigree and spun glass. It sat in an equally beautiful gold-and-glass inkwell, and nearly glowed in the light. She finished scribing the name of one Phillip Donney on the letter. A swish of her wand, and the address that accompanied the name that she had just written filled itself in, in her own distinctive hand. A sudden scratching sound disturbed her. She looked up, and saw the gilded quill rise, dab itself in the inkpot, and fly over to the wall of parchment, directly underneath the last name written. It wrote "Danielle Wells", in the same loopy way, then flew back into the inkwell. McGonagall smiled. In eleven years, when that just-born magical child grew up, she would be invited to Hogwarts, just as the boy she was writing this letter to now would be. That was the entire purpose of this room, after all. She looked down, readjusted her glasses, and continued. She had completed three more envelopes when a distant rustling distracted her again. This time however, it was something that she had _never_ seen before.

A quiet alleyway in London, behind a condemned apartment building in the East End. It was practically identical to any other alley in this neighborhood, filled with dumpsters and flyaway bits of trash. This is the squat of Big Pat, homeless beggar, who, via a fit of vagrant humor, got his handle for being only four feet tall. He was your average streetperson: slightly insane, out of the hospital because of national healthcare cutbacks, and self-medicating with alcohol. Dressed in layer upon layer of coats that would probably require some kind of operation to remove, he was dozing in a corner against the crumbling red brick.

A sudden explosion, like the tearing 'CRACK!' of lightning when it is too close, awoke him with a start. He looked up blearily. There, in the middle of the sky, was a gaping black _rip _as large as a bus. Twin comets of light shot from it's maw, and then it disappeared, as if it never was there. One of them, flying several blocks away, seemed to smash into an old warehouse. The other flew straight at the drifter. Big Pat desperately scrambled out of the way. This silver-blue meteor landed into a ten-foot-tall stack of partially crushed and soggy cardboard boxes, with what sounded like a 'Wumpf!', and the strange flames dissipated in a cloud of steam. The man pulled himself out of his crouch, and cautiously, slowly, approached the impacted pile. When he finally reached it, he looked into the crater of cardboard.

Lying in the fetal position, was a blond-haired boy in a red hoodie. Big Pat had taken all that he could stand, and ran away. And the youth continued to sleep.

Slowly, out of one of the many shelves in the Room of Names, a scroll was extricating itself. Professor McGonagall, at a loss, could do nothing other than watch as that scroll floated to her eye level, and unrolled itself down to the ground. She looked at the names written on the parchment, and a realized with a start that the scroll itself was _fifteen years old_. The gold and glass quill dipped itself again, and went down to the very bottom of the list. Under the last, there was just enough room for it to write one name. The name, was _Edward Elric_. McGonagall's eyes were as wide as saucers. "I have to tell Albus!" She whispered to herself, snatched the floating scroll out of the air, and ran out of the ancient stone room. The parchment stirred with the wind of her departure.

…

"Hmmmn…"

"Errgh…"

Edward stretched out his arms as he woke, like a cat. His hands paused as they hit the unfamiliar surface of the cardboard.

He sprung lightly to his feet without thought, arms and legs tucked into a protective crouch, back against the edge of the box hollow. His eyes flitted back and forth, as he took in his surroundings. For a while he sat that way, letting his breathing normalize, heartbeat return to normal. When no threat was forthcoming, he straightened up, and was blinded by sunlight. He shielded his eyes with his hand reflexively. He winced as his brain reconstructed the events of the last few hours

_So, I went through the Gate_. Ed thought to himself slowly, trying to reason through what had just happened to him._ There's no doubt about that, but the Gate was completely different from any other time I've seen it. Where were the denizens,_ he wondered, thinking of the tiny black-bodied creatures that took his arm and leg,_ and what the hell happened to it?_

His eye caught the gleam of metal.

Wait, metal?

Hurriedly, he pulled up his right sleeve.

_My arm, it's back to automail!_

He gave himself a once over, patted down his slightly dingy threads.

_And my clothes..._He looked down at the chain sticking out of his pocket. _My watch is there, too! WHAT IS GOING ON?! _Ed recognized his hyperventilation, the blurriness in his vision. He was going into shock and he needed to calm down, or he would be in even worse trouble.

_Hold on, hold on, one thing at a time. First, location. _

He looked around.

_So where the hell am I?_

Ed furrowed his brow, and cradled his chin in his brow.

_I should be on the other side, in London again, if it's the same as before. But, is it? Arrgh, damn it, I can't tell from here!_

Ed became aware of a dull roar, slowly building in intensity overhead. He looked up, and a Boeing 747 Jumbo Jet, trailing a great stream of vapor, flew overhead.

Ed just stood there, his jaw hanging.

…

"That's right, Albus. I watched it be written."

"Hmm. Late bloomer, I wonder?"

"Sir, you know that is impossible. Even Neville Longbottom was catalogued in the Room of Names at birth, and he did not demonstrate any magical heritage until barely three years before admittance!"

"Sorry, just my little joke."

"I do not find it very funny."

"Yes, I know. Neither do I." The wizened old wizard sighed, and for a moment looked just a little older. "This is a dangerous time for unusual events."

"Sir, I have read and memorized the histories of Durmstrang, Hogwarts, and Beauxbatons as well as several other academies, so I have absolutely no doubt that this has never happened before. The spells are supposed to be foolproof! How are we going to handle it?"

"Minerva, I am surprised at you. There is only one possible action we can take! We will simply have to enroll this Edward Elric."

"Enroll him!!"

"Absolutely."

"But…but what about the Triwizard-"

"Yes, I know. It might be unseemly of us to find a new student just before it is to take place, but the other option of ignoring him is not possible. It would be a violation of our charter, something I am even more loath to conscience."

Dumbledore furrowed his brow, then seemed to come to a decision. "Minerva, please draft letters to Igor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, tell them the essentials of the situation. Seeing how this boy is not yet old enough to compete, they most likely will not have an issue with his enrollment, but still, it is only proper to inform them. As for Edward…I think that…yes, I think that for such an unusual case, I shall invite him myself."

…

'Atchoo!'

Ed wiped his nose, and wondered for a second if maybe he had caught a cold. He looked up again at the lingering contrails of the plane, and tried to process what he had just seen.

_Okay, so a big metal tube with wings on it just went flying overhead, with a great cloud of steam behind it. Was that a ship or something, or has this world just gone crazy? Some kind of advanced zeppelin…no, it was going too fast! Maybe a new German weapon…come to think about it…_

Ed listened hard, and then walked out of the alley, towards the street.

_This place is noisy, but not noisy enough. When I left it, this city was a warzone! _

He cast about with his eyes, which fell on a dirty and partially trodden-on newspaper. Ed reached down, and picked it up. He read the date.

"W-WHAT?!"


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Feedback is crucial to me improving, and I really appreciate those who do. So Edward is lost, and at this point we have more questions than answers. How did he make it to the J.K. Rowling world? Why are his arm and leg back to automail? Does this mean he still has alchemy? And what was it that fell in after him before the Gate closed? Unfortunately, a few of those questions will have to wait, because it seems that Ed has managed to get himself into a little bit of trouble…

Harry Potter and Fullmetal Alchemist are owned by J.K. Rowling and Square Enix respectively.

Chapter 2: Brave New World

…

Ed stumbled the crowded streets of London's East End. By now, the shock he had been trying to fight off had fully set in.

_Fifty years…_

Of course, now it all made sense. The lack of machine gun fire and air raid sirens, the relative rarity of bombed-out buildings and soldiers. How technology had progressed so much, the difference in clothing of the people walking next to him. He had passed a group of girls wearing extremely pale and dark makeup with black lace, talking animatedly into little boxes he had to guess were some kind of phone. And no one had given him, in his unusual clothes, a second look.

Everything had changed. Even his father…well, Hoenheim certainly couldn't be considered a young man. He'd surely be dead by now, without the ability to jump into another body. Alfons was a different story, but how was he ever going to find him? He might not have survived the air raids, but even if he did, the other Edward, the one that Alfons knew, hadn't. How would he react if the brother he thought he lost reappeared to him looking like a fifteen year old boy, fifty years later? With a metal arm and leg to boot? No, he couldn't talk to him.

He appeared to be in some kind of market square now, not that he cared. He had been hoping that Hoenheim would have answers for him, about the Gate, why his arm and leg were back, but now that was impossible. He could give a rat's ass about anything at the moment. It was the story of his life, really. He thought he'd got a handle on things, and then God gives him a curveball straight to the face.

The tow-headed alchemist passed a man sitting at a wire table, the kind set up by cafes, with two bags of groceries by his feet. Then he stopped walking.

He didn't have a good reason to stop, any place was as good as another right now. In fact, Ed himself was at a loss as to why he didn't just continue on. Something about that man was… different. He didn't know what precisely, considering how strange everything was to him now, but he knew with a familiar certainty, that _something was off_.

Maybe it was the floral-print shirt with the neckerchief, maybe it was the fur coat with the plaid madras pants. It might even have been the bowler hat that was quite a bit too big, and on backwards.

Whatever it was, Ed had the sensation that this man was not making a deliberate fashion statement, but trying to… blend in, and doing a horrible job at it.

Curiosity got the better of him.

Ed turned around, and took a better look. He was hunched over what looked like a complicated series of number charts and formulae, as well as several sheets of scrap paper that had been completely filled with scribbles. A few of these pages had been crumpled up, and dropped to the ground. Whatever he was working on, he was laboring so intently that sweat was dripping down his nose. For a second, he seemed to have found an answer, he scribbled out line after line of figures, and then-

"Bloody hellfire! Lost that damn sign again! And that integral is supposed to be a two, not a four, what kind of…Arrgh!" He pulled off the hat, which had steadily been falling more and more around his ears, and proceeded to rip the brim off with his teeth.

During his long and involved display of frustration, he failed to notice Ed, who had walked right up to the edge of the table, and was looking over the graphs with an intense focus.

Then, a smile creased his face, and he looked around at the contents of the table. Every piece of paper bigger than a matchbox had been filled up already. He saw the grocery bag, so he nonchalantly picked it up and dumped the contents, pieces of fruit, bread, and cereal, onto the curb. He smoothed out the brown paper on the table, then gently took hold of the quill in the exacerbated man's hand.

"Excuse me, can I use this?"

The man was suddenly shocked back into self consciousness by Ed's unexpected proximity.

"Errr…well, I don't see why, um, that is to say…er"

"Thanks." Ed took the pen from the man's unresisting fingers. He dipped it in the inkwell, and started scribing intently. Figures, numbers quickly filled the brown space, even a few diagrams were drawn, with cartographical precision. The entire bag's surface was written on when he reached the two-thirds point, he had to flip it over to the other side. After he wrote the final parts of the last proof equation, he glanced up. Almost forty-five minutes had gone by. The man, who had been endeavoring to read over Ed's shoulder, sat still, finishing up. For no less than the better part of a minute, he was a statue.

Then, he exploded into paroxysms of joy. He picked an amazed Edward up, and spun with him like a dervish.

"You did it boy, you did it! You really did! It's solved! That infernal postulate is finally solved!" He laughed like a madman.

Then, he set the alchemist down, and ran across the street in a Clark Gable swinging-from-the-signposts dash. Even when he was a full block away, Ed could still hear his yelling voice proclaiming "I'm free! I'm free! Take that, (he couldn't make out the name), you insufferable son-of-a-b-(A car horn cut off the final word.)!"

Ed stood for a while, then shrugged. Weirdoes. The problem wasn't even that difficult. Any sufficiently skilled alchemist would have noticed the similarities, it was just like calculating node placement in an array.

Whatever. It had been a nice distraction, anyway. He continued his aimless walk.

…

As the strange man dashed delightedly down the street, he ran headfirst into a tall, cowled figure.

"Argh! Watch where you're…Oh."

After he overcame the shock of recognition, the cloaked shape inclined its head, encouraging him to speak.

"You won't believe it! The most incredible thing just, it just happened! I know you told me to avoid going in public places, but this boy, he just-"

It raised its hand for silence, and spoke for the first time.

"Where is he?"

"Just down the street!" He said, and pointed the way he came.

The figure strode in the direction of the man's quavering digit, without another word.

…

He continued walking on. He passed train stops and doorways with spray painted graffiti. Ed was vaguely aware that the street was getting darker and dirtier, that the neighborhood was slowly becoming worse the further he walked, but he didn't care.

So, considering his distraction, it's perfectly understandable that he missed the slowly gathering gang of thugs surrounding him.

He didn't even look up until he heard the catcalls coming from what seemed to be every direction.

"You got some guts for a little'un! Walkin' our turf wearin' red!" A punkish lout, looking to be about twenty-one, with a blue jacket and scarf wound around his neck, strutted out in front of Ed, hands on his hips.

Ed met his stare. "And what's wrong with red?"

The lout smiled, but his eyes stayed cold. "Oh, din'cha hear? We here are Chelsea, and this turf is ours. STOCKDOWN CREW!" He chanted loudly, and the ten or twelve surrounding Ed repeated it, with gusto.

Ed stood there, clearly unimpressed.

This apparently irritated the spokesman. He spoke directly at Ed. "A ways out of Liverpool, arnt'cha?"

Ed could have said 'Liverpool? Where's that?', which would have been the truth. He could have said 'I'm sorry, I think I'm in the wrong part of town.', which was certainly equally true. He even could have said 'Hello, I'm a flying marshmallow man!'. Any one of these would have worked, and let him get off easy.

What he did say was, "Yeah, so what?"

The surrounding hooligans bristled. It was official now. Ed didn't back down, and their pride demanded that they beat the tar out of him.

"So? So this!" The punk ran forward, and threw a hard right cross.

The rest of them rushed in, the standard mobbing tactic of 'Everyone gets a lick in'. Everything seemed normal…until the lead man fell to his knees, tears streaming out of his eyes. The amazed mob stopped in their tracks, a scant four feet from Ed.

Edward had caught the man's right hand in his, and was unmistakably _crushing _it. There were a few wet crackling sounds, like celery being ripped in half.

"Imsorryimsorrypleasepleasepleaseletgoohgod!" The man begged in a constant stream.

Ed felt sick. He threw the man away by his arm, and continued walking. The gang parted in front of him.

Although Ed couldn't see him now, the injured man was back on his feet. His face twisted with vicious spite, he picked up a chunk of asphalt in his good hand. He threw it.

When it connected, the back of Ed's head exploded with pain and purple lightning. He fell like a bag of bricks.

He could hear the rapid footsteps and triumphant chatter of the approaching gang, but he seemed to be having trouble focusing his eyes. Ed wasn't even sure he could stand. He needed a weapon, something to defend himself, but the closest thing he could make out, a section of two-inch pipe laying in the alleyway, was ten feet away. It might as well have been on the surface of Mars.

Still, he reached for it, desperately.

And damned if it didn't fly right into his hand.

Ed blinked.

But now the first thug was upon him, and he didn't have time to ponder his miraculous good fortune. He made sure to aim for the patella of the approaching tough.

'CRACK!'

The attacker fell down, cursing like a sailor.

Ed continued swinging wildly. Every time he did, he felt a little more disoriented, but he didn't dare stop. He could see more coming, and the way he was now, he wasn't a match for any of them. And they were starting to get smart.

Some of them had picked up rocks and bricks, the rest had grabbed bottles out of the trash and broke them on the sidewalk. Ed felt a flying piece of glass narrowly miss his eye, making a two inch long gash that bled profusely.

They were slowly advancing inward, a circle of death. As poorly aware as he was now, Ed couldn't mistake the look in their eyes. He was dead now, as sure as a fall off the top of Central Headquarters.

'_Weeeooooo weeeooo weeeooo…_' There suddenly came the sounds of approaching sirens.

"Shite! Old Tom!"

"Everyone, get out!"

Ed couldn't make out what just happened. All he could tell was that his vision was tunneling, and he felt inexplicably tired. He knew that should worry him, but for some reason, he couldn't quite remember why.

"Hello there. That was quite a scrap, wasn't it?"

Ed tried to look up. He got the impression of a huge hooded man front of him, leaning over. He feebly tried to swing at him, and realized that the pipe had already fallen from his slack fingers.

"Careful now, that was a heavy knock you took to the head." There might have been a bit of mirth in his voice.

"In any case, you don't have to worry about those thugs," he continued,

"Because, I happen to find you very interesting, Mr. Elric."

Ed's eyes widened. _He knew his name!_

"Let me introduce myself," said the man, throwing off the hood. It revealed a long silver beard and hair, and a set of twinkling blue eyes. "Albus Dumbledore, headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, at your service. You're going to be all right, Edward."

The grey haze that had been swimming around the edges of his vision suddenly closed in. He heard a faraway voice calling out his name with concern, and then everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

This update took a little longer than the others, but this wasn't my original intention. It's of a commeasurably longer size, however the real difficulty lied with the _dialogue_. Dumbledore is a mixture of many things: wit, unconventionalism, bouts of silliness, perception and unshakable authority, which makes him a royal _pain_ to write. His speech patterns are, in a word, _distinctive_. So, sorry about the delay. Here is the chapter. Oh, and to the reviewers: you're awesometacular. (I had to make up a word for you. Why have you made me main the already crippled English language? WHY?!)

Harry Potter & Assoc. intellectual property belongs to J.K. Rowling. Same thing with Fullmetal Alchemist, only it's Square Enix.

Chapter 3: Reason Against Reason

"AHH!"

Ed jumped out of the chair he had been sitting in, knocking it in a clatter to the ground.

The long bearded man with half-moon glasses perched on the end of his nose, sitting across from the round table between them, didn't appear surprised in the least at Ed's outburst. He set down a mug of what appeared to be some kind of ale with a deliberate air.

"I see you're awake, Edward. You can relax, we're very safe here."

"W-wait," stammered Edward, "You were the one who-"

"-Removed you from the alleyway before the police arrived? Yes, that was me. You will also notice that I mended your head, and that nasty cut you had on your face. You were in poor shape, and it seemed the least I could do for not appearing earlier."

Ed automatically reached up and touched the non-existent cut, and did a mental check for lasting injuries. There were none. But when his surprise from this faded, he realized he had another question. Namely, it was-

"Where are we?" asked Ed, looking around.

"Cosmically, I am told we reside on the planet Earth, in the Orion arm of the Milky Way galaxy. Geographically, we stand on the gloried Isles of Brittania in the Western Hemisphere. Nationally, we are of course in the proud country of Britain. And locally, we are in the Leaky Cauldron, a wizard bar in the province of London proper." Dumbledore answered earnestly.

Ed, slightly bowled over by the length of the answer, took some time to respond. When he did, he said "Well, uh, thanks…". He paused for a minute, as if trying to remember something. "Bumbledore, was it?"

The headmaster smiled, and didn't look the least bit offended.

"It's Dumbledore, in truth. Quite a name too, isn't it? Unique. I was very much surprised when my brother," he said, eyes sparkling, "got one just like it!"

Ed grinned, despite himself.

Albus's face then took on a slightly less mirthful cast, and he added, "I'm even more surprised that you managed to remember any of it. That was a bad concussion you received."

"Yeah, it was pretty bad." Ed said, distracted. He was craning his neck around, trying to take in as much detail from his surroundings as he could.

The bar was smoky, and dark. It looked so typical that it almost wasn't worth mentioning, but there were a few things that revealed its extraordinary nature. For one, there were the patrons. They seemed to come in every shape, size, and color (including green), and were dressed in a multitude of strange long robes. One or two of them even had the quintessential peaked wizard's hat, which unmistakably identified its owner as magical. Regardless, it was the first time Ed had seen one done in brown polka-dots.

Second, the great stock of bottles behind the bar. Nearly every bar or pub had one of these, a set of shelves against the wall behind the barkeep, that were filled with exotic and unusual liquors in equally exotic flasks. However, Ed didn't think he had ever seen drinks as exotic as these. A dark blue bottle that looked to be full of fireflies winking in and out sat on one end of the shelf, while a clear bottle on the other end held what seemed to be a swarm of bees. On a place of honor was a largish flagon, expertly crafted so that it looked like a recoiling dragon, with its sinuous neck becoming the neck of the bottle, and its upreached head and wide-open mouth the opening. The spirit inside of it glowed the smoldering orange of embers, so whenever a drink was poured from it, the glass dragon looked as if it was issuing forth flame.

And last but not least, was the fireplace. It was a perfectly respectable fireplace, made of stone and mortar. It seemed solid, structurally sound, and well cemented into reality. With such a mundane hearth as this, a logical person might even be willing to forgive the fire, which was lime-green.

Dumbledore merely chuckled to see Ed looking so interested.

When he finished gazing around, he turned back to Dumbledore and fixated him with a stare.

"So what's the trick?"

"Trick? Edward, I assure you, there is none."

"Oh yeah?" Said Ed, a small frown on his face. "I know that all of this, this _magic_, is completely impossible. It violates every part of the Law of Equivalent Exchange."

"Oh, do you mean Lavioser's theory of the _Conservation of Mass_? Yes, I sometimes hear arguments against magic made by muggles along the same lines, though never phrased quite like that. In fact, I believe that that 'law' has done more for the secrecy of the wizarding society than the Ministry ever has. The small amount of trouble we're in now, from the few believers catching the occasional photos of a stray pixie and such, would be nothing against the exposure from an interested scientific community. They can be extremely clever when they want to be, so it is very convenient for us that we are impossible."

"Hey! Are you listening to me? This. _Is_. Impossible! So if it's impossible, then this has to be fake!"

"Can you think of nothing, Ed," Dumbledore continued to say, "that you have done that is completely impossible? Perhaps you wanted to escape somewhere, and found yourself in a tree, or wanted revenge against a person, only to have it somehow happen? Or even, to need a weapon to defend yourself," and here Dumbledore's eyes turned piercing, "and it suddenly is in your hand?"

Ed's mouth opened, and closed. He managed, "I-I don't…" but his mind wasn't on his speech.

_He's right! That pipe, it flew right to me! _His mind was racing wildly. _But that couldn't have been real! _

_And my injuries too…_, he recalled, _He could have given me some kind of drug to cover the pain of the concussion, but the cut…that should have taken a week at least to heal. And I don't feel stiff at all, so I couldn't have been out more than an hour or so!_

"Small acts of spontaneous magic like that are strong indicators of a future as a witch or wizard, Edward. What we teach at Hogwarts is the ability to focus and manifest that magic in recognizable forms, with specific results."

"No! NO! This has got to be some kind of trick!"

Dumbledore raised one eyebrow. "Why are you so committed to the idea that there is nothing outside of science?"

Ed, still standing, began to shake with ill contained emotion.

"You…couldn't possibly understand."

"Oh? How can you be so certain of that?"

But Ed had heard enough.

"Good bye" He said darkly. He whirled, and walked towards the door.

"EDWARD!" Dumbledore called out, like the crack of a whip. "Why do you not want to be understood? I know that you have questions, Edward, and I can help! Why not stay?"

Ed stopped walking, glanced at Dumbledore, and back to the door.

"What is out there for you?" Albus said, softly.

Ed already knew the answer: nothing.

"You value science, Edward, as you've said to me. You prize logic. Tell me, are you being logical now? I am here, more than willing to support you in the pursuit of what you are looking for, and you would rather rush out that door to a terribly uncertain fate?"

"But, the magic, it's-"

"It is what? Edward, here you are faced with two options. Either magic is real, with all the implications therein. Implications which," and here the headmaster brought out his wand, and drew a large number '1' in the air with red sparks, "you may feel free to discover at your leisure. Or otherwise," he outlined a number '2' in matching sparks alongside the first, "you decide that you are right, magic is indeed not real, and all of it is somehow a conspiracy, because a con on a scale as large as this could not be called anything else. Regardless of what you call it, that theory presents you with several problems. As intelligent as you obviously are, I've no doubt that you already have discovered some of them. What, then, is the first one?"

Ed turned around fully, and stared hard at the floating digits. Barely louder than a whisper, he said one word.

"_How?"_

Dumbledore beamed, and tapped the side of his nose with one finger. "That is exactly it. How are we doing it? How did I make this writing in the air? And the pipe, and the fire? How did we fake that trio of goblins over there," and here he pointed at the three clever looking individuals with inhumanly long fingers, noses, and ears, "and how did we organize it? And provided there are indeed answers to these conundrums, isn't the ramification of that much worse than magic?

Ed's face was unreadable.

" If this is some technological trickery on a grand scale, if we're capable of so much, then _isn't it just the same as magic?_ Does the difference not become semantic?"

"No! The purpose of what you're doing, it's, it's completely different!"

"Exactly right again. The difference between real magic and fake, of course, is motive. In real magic, the motive is honest. In your case, it is to train you to use your natural abilities, ones that are inherent. But what could the motive be for fake magic, for the scammers like me,? Fool people into giving us their fortunes? Perhaps gain power? Yes, those are grand and evil goals. But the resources it would take would be crippling. The personal fortunes that we could acquire, as well as influence, to compensate us would give us more problems than would be worthwhile."

"Yeah? Like what?"

"You mean, barring the possibility of our erstwhile benefactors asking 'Why don't you just magic some up?' Well, as you've seen, what we can do," Dumbledore made an offhand flick of his wand, and the still-visible numbers began to dissolve repeatedly into a general cloud, only to change color and re-form, "is quite a bit beyond modern technology. That requires incredible amounts of money. To get that money, aside from us having a gargantuanly large starting capital, we would have to fool a few rich individuals. Fooling more, less affluent individuals is possible too, but that would cost more in terms of time, and personnel. To fool these affluent individuals, which I believe are called birds or marks, we would have to have proportionally greater feats to impress them with. Remember, as members of the upper class, they themselves will also have access to wondrous technology of their own, yet again narrowing our possible profit margin. And power! Well, yes, shadow governments do exist in the real world. Because their members are shrouded in secrecy and inscrutable power, it would therefore be ideal for fake wizards, but due to the nature of our power, false magic, as opposed to military or financial might, we would need proof. For us to gain power, first, we would need a large demonstration in a controlled environment, which is the anathema of the charlatan. It invites too much scrutiny, and regardless, as you said, if it is technology, we are bound by the laws of thermodynamics. We could never create what was not already there, for that is one act true magic can accomplish that false can not."

Dumbledore stopped talking, and took a long drink out of his ale. With his wand in his free hand, he gestured, and the fallen chair that Ed had occupied righted itself. Ed stared at it, then slowly walked to the chair, and put his hands upon the rough wooden back.

Albus smacked his lips and made a little sound of satisfaction. He then began again.

"In totality, a magical scam at this level would be unprofitable, unworkable, and unwise, and is fundamentally flawed. Due to nonexistent technological prerequisites, crippling overhead, insufficient returns, and the constant risk of exposure due to that most treacherous but essential component, the human factor, a magical façade is _impossible_. And where does all this pondering and reasoning lead us, Edward? What is the only possible conclusion?"

Ed hung his head, and sat back down in his chair. He didn't speak for nearly five minutes.

Dumbledore was about to prod him again, when Edward exhaled a ragged, crackly breath.

In the voice of a defeated man he said three little, world-shaking words.

"Magic…is real."

Albus grinned, a little sadly. "Yes, it is real. I'm sorry, Edward. I think I understand you. Something terrible happened to you, didn't it? Something happened to your family."

Ed looked up, a sudden fear haunting his eyes.

"You couldn't do anything, could you? And you had to deal with that, perhaps bumping your head on the walls of reality along the way. You comforted yourself with that fact, your own helplessness, that you could only do what was possible. You defended empiricism, because it vindicated and empowered you. You found closure through it. It was your tool and guide. And now, you're here."

Dumbledore indicated the space of the interior of the pub with a great sweeping gesture.

"-Where nothing makes sense, in the way you have learned things. Where what you thought was impossible suddenly is real. The only thing you can do is deny it, despite that strange feeling in your stomach that it isn't smoke and mirrors this time. But the science says it can't be real, your experience says it can't be real, and your heart says it too, therefore you deny. The science says no because it goes against the laws of what is called natural. Experience says no because it has never been true before, it's always been men in shiny suits with bottles of glitter and empty promises. But your heart, your heart says no because you don't want to be hurt. Because if it is true, then there _was_ something you could have done. And deeper still, is an incredible anger at the injustice of it, of why it has come to you now, and not _then_. You hate it, you hate the sadness and regret, and perhaps you even hate that you hate me for defending and giving voice to it. And that is he most powerful reason of all that you fight magic, isn't it? Am I right, Edward?"

He looked at Ed with an incredible compassion.

Ed sat there, his hair covering his face. His shoulders were trembling.

"You do not have to tell me, if you don't wish to."

Edward's posture was all the answer Dumbledore needed.

He noticed something rolled off Ed's cheek. It might have been a tear.

"Edward, I have caused you distress, and I am sorry. I sought you out originally for your great potential, and I wanted to meet you, to ask you to join our family at Hogwarts. But I think you would never forgive me if I forced you to make a decision right now. You are in no state to do so, and I believe that you might need a little time to think. Here."

Dumbledore handed him a thick parchment envelope, sealed with red wax. On the front was Ed's full name, scribed in curly writing. The writer of the envelope had obviously never had to deal with a boy who truly had no place to call his own, and instead of an address, three hastily blotted question marks were put under his name.

"That is your acceptance letter. I think it best if you keep it with you. Why don't we meet back here in, say, four hours? That would be…hmm…half past six. If you decide to attend, that would be wonderful, if not, well, then I will still treat you to dinner. Take your time, and make sure you know what you desire."

Ed stood up. He walked over to the door, hesitant, as if he was uncertain if the floor would hold him.

"Oh, and Edward?"

Ed looked back at the headmaster.

He smiled. "…Don't be late."


	4. Chapter 4

Hey guys! Remember me? And remember how I said I'd get this update up faster than the last one?

Dear God, I hope not.

Sorry this took so long. Procrastination is to blame, I think. That, and my own incessant nitpicking. A few notes: Valdemar is a real germanic name, completely separate from Voldemort. I made up the Obvuscation spell from some Latin roots, and this is still in London's East End. That's about it. Thanks for writing, and the fantastic response! It's more than I deserve, and I'm a little beside myself because of it. Here we go.

Chapter 4: Memory-Killer

…

London is a funny city. It has concert halls next to hookah bars, parks in between industrial smokestacks, and galleries alternating with farmer's markets. And occasionally, you'll find cozy neighborhoods tucked in the worst sides of town. One such community was the home of Maurice Dobbins, a man getting on in years.

His house was a smallish box of red brick, but since he lived alone, it wasn't really a problem. He didn't have much in the way of family or friends, save for one cousin he saw infrequently.

Inside of his home, the sitting room was in the state of disorder one attributes to a man who has not had guests for months, and is not expecting any for many more. There was all sorts of stuff lying on the irregularly shaded blue carpet. The debris was not garbage, but merely items he hadn't deigned to pick up yet. There was a half-finished paperback, a few coins of several denominations, slippers, socks, things which made up the various scattered articles of habitual bachelorhood. They were swept to either side, to make a vague aisle or path to the kitchen and the front door.

The man himself was sitting in a brown, almost but not quite threadbare, easy chair. His feet were propped up, he was reading the paper, and smoking a pipe of very aromatic tobacco. Occasionally, the pictures of the paper would flicker and move, but Maurice didn't even bat an eye at this strange behavior. He was comfortable, perhaps a little set in his ways, but who could blame him? He'd had lots of excitement when he was a younger man, plenty of adventures. He knew his life was winding down, and he was determined to enjoy it. He had his habits now, his routines, which, as anyone who has tried great amounts of excitement for a long period of time can tell you, is actually a very pleasant way to live. He'd stop off at the pub, visit the baker's every Tuesday morning and pick up fresh bread and sweet rolls, and read the paper in his easy chair with a pinch of his favorite elf-cured, rough-cut long stem tobacco, _Stewart's Strangely Special Smokes _(est. 1778). Sometimes, the widow who worked the counter at the bakery would give him a free half dozen figgy scones, and blush. Life was good.

There was a knock on the door.

Strange at this time of day, but not unusual. That was one of the problems of living in a stable neighborhood like this. Charities would ring your bell at all hours, and little ladies with a great deal of old-fashioned Puritanical zest would relentlessly beat down your door to get your signature on whatever new petition they were hocking.

He smiled. If one of them got an idea about what kind of person he used to be, then _he_ might be faced the next morning with an army of spinsters holding pitchforks and torches! He laughed a little to himself, and reluctantly climbed out of the chair, putting the paper aside.

Maybe he should let a little of the old Maurice loose, he mused to himself. The Ministry still owed him a few favors, and it would be fun to see the latest in the long line of self-proclaimed savior proselytizers on his steps turned bright red with horns. Okay, maybe that was a _bit_ too much, he qualified, but he was sure he could get away with a nice long tail. Too bad he had misplaced his wand, he was always losing it these days. He made a mental note to remind him to tie a block of wood on it, the next time he saw it.

As he walked to the door, he hears someone say something in a loud voice. With it coming through from outside and all, he couldn't hear very clearly. It sounded like the old _Obvuscatio_ 'ignore this' spell, that allowed certain actions to escape the notice of those around them, and worked especially well on muggles. If a wizard casts that, he could essentially walk down the block, turning cars into horses, without a care in the world, although it didn't work nearly as well on wizards or cameras. Of course, that was impossible, seeing how the Ministry strictly limited its usage to certain wizard functions, because of how easy it was to abuse. That abuse led to , would lead to carelessness, and a careless wizard was a dead wizard. They were probably just a bunch of excitable activist youngsters who got a little too loud while doing their route.

He walked to the door, and opened it without looking out. Pure habit.

Three men in black robes were waiting outside.

"Well hello, Maurice! It's been such a long time since I've seen you. It looks like you're doing well for yourself." said the lead figure in a reedy, petulant voice, his face completely hidden by the hood of his cowl. Maurice could barely see the tip of the man's chin, it looked like he was wearing a porcelain mask.

"I hope you remember me, Maurice. Your friends and comrades from the old days remember _you_. Because we wanted to _thank _you very, very badly. We figured it out, you see, when you didn't join us-"

And the mystery man threw back the hood to reveal a grinning white skull. Light gleamed off of it, and stamped indelibly on its forehead, was a small shape…

"-_In Azkaban, YOU FILTH!" _The maddening face shrieked, and charged at him.

Blind terror seized Maurice and shot lightning down his spine. He slammed the door, but the wraith had already gotten his toe in. As he stared at the dark form struggling to pry it open, he wedged it shut with his body, and he got a good look at the little emblem on the fearfully realistic mask. It was another skull, with a snake for a tongue.

_The Dark Mark._

Which meant…Death Eaters. He remembered that mask. It was only used when they wanted to murder you, but only after the most painful torture they could possibly inflict. And then they killed everyone that you knew.

His past had come back, to end his present.

One of them yelled something.

A jet of red light blew his paltry wooden defense to splinters, knocking him back into the wall. He slumped into a heap.

As they kicked in the ruins of the door, Maurice scrambled on his hands and knees into the sitting room. He needed to run, to apparate, now, damn it now! But he didn't have his wand, he didn't have _time_, he needed to-

The two silent ones grabbed either one of his arms with the strength of steel. They dragged him into the living room, and kicked out his legs. He was sitting on his knees, like a gangland execution. His limbs, still in their grip, were pulled painfully tight.

He babbled incoherently. "No, please don't, I-I didn't do it! It wasn't me!"

"Oh, we know you _did_. Yes, you certainly did. You helped the ministry. How many of us did you have captured again, hmm? Twelve? Well, that's exactly how many hours you have left, Maurice. They will not be pleasant." The skull-faced man stood in front of him, exultant. "Our lord is coming back, and it just wouldn't do if I didn't have a suitable gift for him. I think your _eyes_ and your _tongue_ will do _perfectly_. Do me a favor and scream, would you? I've been waiting for this for a _looong _time. Hold him."

"No, wait! I-"

"Shut up, scum. _Crucio_."

And he did just as he was asked.

…

Ed walked through London in a daze, for the second time today. Things were getting more and more crazy, more and more unbelievable. Just as he thought he had seen the all-time high for downright _insanity, _it was topped in less then five minutes. Did that Dumble-whatever guy actually get him to admit magic was _real?_ He must have been hit in the head harder then he thought.

He had been wandering for close to two hours now, in more or less a straight line from the Leaky Cauldron. Ed was lucky, he had a near impeccable sense of direction, so he was sure that he could make it back easily. But still, the changes around him were dazzling. He ended up spending thirty minutes in awe looking at a selection of TVs turned to BBC 1 in a shop window.

As he walked, he puzzled over what he had heard from the powerful wizard. He remembered how he mentioned modern technology so matter-of-factly, as if it were common knowledge. _Which means he knows my name_, he pondered, _but not where I'm from. He's eerily perceptive, and a great theoretician, yet not omniscient. Is what has happened to me something…new? Unprecedented? …That would be supported by his appearance. How many prospective students get a personal visit from the headmaster?_

Wait…

Something didn't make sense…

_Hold on, that's not right! This can't be unprecedented! If this is the same London, only in the future, then what about my fa- er, I mean Hoenheim? And there had to have been others too! _

_But Dumbledore didn't mention anything about it… _

_Surely wizards would pay attention to something like that. They would have 'magical' ways to figure out that they weren't just lying or crazy! Plus, I don't remember anything even vaguely magical happening when I was there in that older London. It even felt different…_

For the last forty-five minutes, he'd become aware of a tingling in the skin of his neck and back. It wasn't distinctly unpleasant, and was sort of like the strange feeling that comes before the pins and needles in a sleeping foot, or the charge in the air right before a thunderstorm. It was very mild, and if he didn't focus on it, it went away altogether.

_But this isn't the only thing that's changed, is it? The Gate was different too! Doesn't it follow logic that if the Gate is different, it could lead to another world entirely?_ His mind raced ahead rapidly. _So I'm in a different world…that's not a huge leap, since there wasn't any disparate gap in time between when Hoenheim was forced through the Gate by Dante, and me going through to save Al. It moved like normal…_

Another thought caught him like a punch in the gut.

_Al! Dammit, I forgot where my priorities should be! Why am I wasting my time here? I should be trying to find my way back to Al, and Winry and Rose! _

…_But I don't even know where to start._

He held up the crumpled envelope in his left hand, and looked at it thoughtfully.

…_Or do I?_

There was a slight noise that brought him back into his surroundings. But what was it? He listened intently. There were car horns, the sound of a train and a radio, and a very faint, thin…

_A scream! That's someone screaming!_

He ran automatically toward the sound.

As he covered block after block, the screaming got louder, and louder, and it became more obvious that whoever was making the scream was either the world's best actor, with a set of pipes that would be the envy of any opera singer, or someone was sawing off his legs extremely slowly.

Ed's lungs were starting to burn. He rounded a corner, into a relatively neat row of houses. The yells were almost deafening now.

He saw a door, broken open. The screams were obviously coming from within.

He ran towards the door.

"Hey! Watchit, you little hooligan! Out of my way!"

He had accidentally run into a frumpy housewife, walking down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.

He stared at her.

"Y-you, you mean," Ed stammered, "You're not going to…You're ignoring that?!"

The woman stared at him like he was insane. "Ignorin' what? Nothin' worth paying any mind to here. Nice and quiet."

The scream rose another decibel.

Ed gave her another perplexed look, and ran past. She uttered an indignant harrumph, and continued on her way.

_She couldn't hear it! _he thought to himself.

He stopped in front of the house. He could just barely see in the window…

…

Inside, most of Maurice's strength had left. Only one of the blackguard pair were needed to hold him now. One merely paced the floor while the white mask had his fun inflicting pain upon him.

The free one stopped walking. He looked out the window.

"Valdemar." he said, in a voice that sounded like it was hewn from a mountain.

"I'm busy!" the man in the mask said angrily. He gave Maurice a vicious kick in the stomach.

"Someone sees." The figure uttered, in the same grudging tone.

"What!?" He ran to the window and looked out.

…

Ed recoiled back suddenly, as a spectrelike figure suddenly appeared on the other side of the glass. It was staring straight at him.

…

Valdemar gave a harsh laugh. "Relax! It's just a child, not an Auror. He isn't a threat. Most likely he's just one of that deluded fool Dumbledore's students. You take care of him."

The black robed man nodded, and drew his wand.

"Remember, no killing. We're here for him, no one else." he said, pointing at the slumped body of Maurice. "Just wipe his memory, and give him a couple of injuries to explain it. The _Obvuscatio _only has a range of thirty meters, so don't go too far."

"Yes." He walked to the door, and extended his arm, and at the top of his lungs said-

…

"_Obliviate!_"

Ed had seen the figure stride through the wrecked doorway, holding what looked like a stick, in a dangerous fashion. And now, that he had hollered that word, _something _shot out of it, rippling the air like the breeze from a furnace. He rolled out of the way quickly.

The figure seemed irritated by this. It repeated the last word. Ed, having seen it once already, easily dodged.

The mystery attacker said it once more. Ed managed to evade it again, but his toe caught on a crack in the cement sidewalk. He fell, prone and vulnerable.

Regardless, his assailant had had enough of his quick-footed tactics. He pointed his wand, and shouted again.

"STUPEFY!"

Ed didn't have time to think. The red jet that shot out of the end of the stick was coming faster than the last ones, and he couldn't get up quickly enough. His hands moved by themselves…

'CLAP!'

…

"Damn it, what's taking ya!? He's just a little kid!"

Valdemar walked to the door, furious. He had waited years for this, and now some snot-nosed punk was interfering? Was everyone incompetent?! How hard is it to hit an inexperienced schoolboy with a memory charm, and then kick in his head?

He stormed outside. In no time, the Ministry would catch on and send an Auror task force. His revenge could wait, he wouldn't allow himself to be caught again.

But outside was no better, in terms of unresolved mysteries. There was a new slab of rock sticking out of the ground, a scorch mark still glowing with heat burned into the center of it. It was nearly five feet tall, four feet wide at the base, and made of pure white stone (the same type of stone that the sidewalk was reconstituted from, but of course he couldn't know it.)

But where was the man he sent to deal with him? A quick glance to his right answered that question.

He was slumped against the wall, his wand dropped from his slack fingers. Valdemar let out his breath in an angry hiss. Stunning spells were excellent for stopping living things, but they tended to bounce unpredictably when they struck inanimate objects. That kid must have conjured up that wall somehow, and got fired at head-on. It ricocheted off, straight back at that incompetent fool. How irritating!

And behind this slab of rock, was one young, speechless alchemist. Eyes so wide that they might fall out of his head, he stared at his hands, as if they didn't belong to him.

_My alchemy works…It works…I didn't even mean for it to, and, and it worked!_

His mouth formed into a crazy little grin.

_IT WORKS!_

Valdemar, however, was much less amused by this turn of events. He decided that he had no other choice…

"Listen up, puppet of Dumbledore! I don't know how you managed to defend yourself, and I don't care. You should know that these are your last moments on Earth! _Bombarda!_

Suddenly, the stone barrier shook violently. Chunks of stone broke loose, but it stayed up.

_There's no way it can take another hit like that. _Edward hurriedly thought to himself. _I'll figure out why my alchemy works later. Guess I just need to bring the fight to him._

He clapped his hands, and drew out the metal bracer on his automail into a wickedly sharp blade.

He looked at it.

_No, this won't work! I'll have to get in close, and that whatever-that-thing is can hit from too far away…_

_Hmm…_ He clapped his hands again, and touched the ground again..

"What!?" Valdemar remarked in surprise, when he saw the flares of blue light from behind the impromptu blockade. He then rallied. "It doesn't matter, what little last minute tricks you pull! There can only be one conclusion here, considering the difference in our skills.

His eyes caught a flicker of red. He grinned. All he needed was one exposed part of this irritating boy to cast his next spell, and he obligingly edges out his arm as a target! Such luck! He took a deep breath.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

There was a starburst of hard green light, and a terrifying whooshing through the air, like gigantic wings or arms. Hidden beneath the mask, Valdemar's mouth was set with a crazed grin. So what if he was terrible in Arithmancy, if he never passed Herbology or Astronomy? So what if he didn't know his arse from an antidote in Potions? Here was real _power_, the power to _end life!_ Oh, they had it all upside down! _This_ was what was real, not what was in some boring old books! He rejoiced in his own magnificence at his assertion of that truth, at the vicarious thrill of death.

And so it was because of this that he felt rather stupid when the 'corpse' of Edward fell over, revealing itself to be a stuffed scarecrow in a red jacket.

Suddenly, like a jack-in-the-box, Ed burst through the sod in the front yard not two feet from Valdemar.

"WHAT!?" He yelled in amazement and dismay, and turned to bring his wand to bear.

Edward didn't give him the chance.

With one strong downward slice, the thin stick of wood was sheared in half by Ed's remarkable metal arm.

Valdemar looked at the stub left in his hand with disbelief.

"But…you, how did you-!" He spit out.

Edward grinned. "Simple. I made a tunnel. It's kind of a specialty of mine."

A tunnel? He had been beaten by a kid with a _tunnel!?_ Blind rage seized him. He moved forward threateningly.

The needle-sharp point that Edward instantly placed under his chin, however, with _just enough_ pressure to get the message across, dropped a portcullis on that avenue of retribution.

"And now, I'm sorry, but you're just a little too dangerous to be left conscious. This is going to hurt."

"Wha-?" The ivory-faced man managed, but was interrupted when Ed ducked under his arm. Ed delivered a sharp rap to the base of his skull with the hand that was currently not Ginsu-shaped. (It would be a little unfair to mention that Ed had to jump to reach his head.) Valdemar went down with all the grace of a tranquilized giraffe, which is to say, it was a teetering sort of fall that seems to go on for a long time.

Edward was already inside the house. The last Death Eater had seen him coming, and attempted to cast the Killing Curse for a second time.

"_AVADA KEDAVR-"_ _CRACK! _"Arrgh!"

Ed had picked up a small decorative vase from the table near the door, (it was a gift from Maurice's mother,) and beaned him with it right between the eyes. The third, and final, Death Eater unceremoniously hit the ground.

Edward took a moment to make sure that he really was out.

A sudden stirring caught his eye. What he had first taken to be a pile of pillows and blankets thrown in a corner was in fact a man, and a badly ailing one at that.

Ed looked around at the ruins of the house. He looked at the four men, passed out in various poses on the ground.

"…Great."

"What now?"


	5. Chapter 5

Well, I don't know about where you're at, but it is unbelievably freakin' cold right now. Seriously. It's like breathing _needles_, just going outside. Sorry, just my little complaint. Please ignore it.

I left off last chapter with a bit of a cliffhanger. Hopefully there's a bit less of an incomplete feel this time through, as I think several of my reviewers mentioned something like that. (By the way, you guys earn like ten thousand awesome points for reviewing.) The responses I've gotten for my little obsessive fan-story has been overwhelming and your encouragements have kept me rolling along.

And now we go back down the rabbit hole…

Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling, and Full Metal Alchemist is owned by Square Enix.

Awesome points are redeemable via Not-Real Mail for imaginary cookies. And stickers. And eternal gratitude. (I can't afford anything else! Sorry!)

Chapter 5: Past is Over.

'SPLASH!'

"Damn it, he didn't wake up. Should I fill it up again?"

Maurice heard those words, from someplace far away. He was slowly, laboriously climbing back to the conscious world. He felt sore, tired, and for some reason, damp. Stranger still, there seemed to be a kid standing over him with a full bucket of water…

'SPLASH!'

Choking and sputtering, Maurice came to life like a resuscitated drowned man.

"Stop! 'M awake! No more bloody 'cough' wa- 'cough' water!"

Ed stood over him, looking dubious.

"Are you a wizard?"

Maurice looked up suddenly, surprised. "Yes, 'hrmpf' yes, I am."

"If you are, you might want to get up quick. Your whole secrecy thing is about to be in a _lot_ of trouble."

He blinked blearily, and looked about, surveying the damage to his home.

The room, for lack of a better word, was in shambles. His door was long gone, his walls covered with burns. His carpet was now sodden, and squished under his fingers. (Maurice hoped it was just water.) Also, although he didn't know it, Edward's ruined wall, as well as his impromptu tunnel tactic was still there on the lawn, sitting in plain sight. It took all of ten seconds for him to fully absorb the situation.

"Bloody _hellfire_."

"Yeah, pretty much. Hey, who are these guys? " Ed asked, glancing into a corner of the room.

Maurice's gaze followed his, and he involuntarily shuddered backwards when he saw the white mask of his tormentor leering back at him. It took him a second to realize that all three of them were there, unconsciously lying against the wall like rag dolls, bound hand and foot with some stout-looking cord.

"Sorry, I had to use your carpet to tie them up." Ed said sheepishly, pointing to a bald spot on the floor. "It's actually some kind of synthetic polymer. Really fascinating stuff."

Maurice, who had no idea what Ed was talking about, decided to let it pass. His concerns were more immediate. Namely, the unconscious men.

"Yeh, yeh beat _them_? _Three_ Death Eaters?"

"Is that what these clowns are called? Yeah, I beat them. They kept on trying some crazy, I don't know, _spells_ on me or something, so I just dodged and took them down whichever way was easiest."

He scratched the back of his head. "For all their intimidating costumes and masks, they were actually pretty weak."

Maurice, who knew things to be quite the opposite, decided not to say anything. While he had been talking, the elder man had been carefully examining him. Something about this kid… was… _different_. He seemed hard. Sharp. Despite his currently relaxed posture and small size, he felt that he had better not doubt this boy's claim.

"Hey, listen, I'm serious about the secrecy thing. Is there anything you need to do? They probably used-"

Ed's brow furrowed with thought.

"-whatever the hell it is you people do to make the non-magical not notice things. I ran right past a woman on my way here, and she didn't seem to hear your, ah," Ed stopped, tactfully remembering the screams of pain. "She didn't notice anything. But, I might have broken it when I was fighting them. I, well, I have a feeling that that happened somehow."

Broken it? Maurice thought back. He had heard something right before they attacked him… Oh, of course. The _Obvuscatio_ spell. But that spell was, by its very nature and by necessity, difficult to counter. How did this boy manage to…Well, for that matter, how did he manage to defeat three trained killers? Mysteries abound…

Wait, if it was broken, then that means…

"Oh, damn." He groaned. "We're in for it now."

Ed's face betrayed his confusion.

"A Ministry team is definitely on its way, if the charm barrier is gone. It won't be so bad for me, me and them go way back… It's yeh I'm worried about."

"Huh? What do you mean, Ministry?" _I think I remember Dumbledore mentioning them!_ Ed thought to himself excitedly.

"Yeh don't know?" Maurice slapped his forehead in dismay. "Yeh mean to tell me yeh're a _muggle-born?_ Arrgh! That's even _worse!_"

"What?"

"Oh, they go even _more_ bonkers when a muggle-born uses unauthorized magic! Yeh're in for a world of trouble if they find out!"

Maurice, who had shakily gotten to his feet to better see the state of his poor house, now began to pace slowly. Something occurred to him.

"You saved m'life."

Ed paused, then nodded.

"…M'name is Maurice Dobbins."

"I know. It was on the mailbox."

"What's yours?" Maurice asked, a little gruffly. He seemed embarrassed for not asking earlier.

"Edward. Edward Elric."

"Edward, eh? Well, helping yeh stay out of harm's way is the least I could do. Yeh're gonna want to hide in that closet over there. They'd probably have been here already, if it weren't for the World Cup, so hurry up."

Just as he made it into the closet, he heard a series of pops coming from outside the house. There were several indistinct shouts, and a few individuals started a very heated discussion with Maurice. They were evidently trying to suggest that this home invasion was due in some part to Maurice's negligence, but Maurice had a few choice words of his own, particularly ones involving officials dropping the ball on tracking dangerous freed convicts, and the fact that they only showed up after the fighting was done. Neither side seemed pleased with the other. The officials' voices in particular had a sense of strain about them, as if there were a hundred other duties that they needed to accomplish and this one incident was slowing them down.

Eventually, when it became evident that Maurice was intractable, they cut their losses, and the voices died down. Ed stayed there, motionless, until Maurice opened the door and let him out.

When Ed's eyes readjusted, he could hardly believe it. The living room, which had only a short time ago been completely demolished, looked better than new.

"Wow."

Maurice looked about critically. "What, this? Sub-par." He sniffed. "That vase was on the other table. And they put the lampshade upside-down."

"Now then, Edward, I've got something I'd like yeh t' see." He said with a conspiratorial grin. "I think yeh'll appreciate it."

….

It lied on the table, glittering like a diamond. You practically needed to use smoked glasses to look at it directly. The handle was made of a light colored wood but was stained dark, and the stripes that ran through it glowed like quicksilver. There were molded spots in the slim beam to put your hands, and the whole deal was capped at the end with a dull metal point, like the top of a castle tower. The bristles also gleamed silver, and came together at the end into a perfect fairytale bob. The words "Silver Arrow" in curly lettering, with a big flourish underneath, were inlaid into the stem with some sort of golden metal.

"Woooow. It's…a broom." Said Ed, dryly.

His sarcastic edge was no match for Maurice's enthusiasm.

"That she is! A Silver Arrow, the finest broom ever made! It'll go fast enough to rip your ears right off! Nowadays, you've got your Cleansweep 10s and Nimbus 2001s, but none of them are a patch on this! Y'see, the Cleansweeps had special enchantments put on them to dampen inertia and make them corner well, at the expense of pure _speed_. That's all well and good, but it made things too easy, everyone and his sister wanted one. And so every model after that, even the Firebolt, had the same blasted charms on it, makes the ride smoother, the curves gentler, but it's like flying with, what do the muggles call them, training wheels! So, naturally, those in the know, the old school flyers, want the Arrow. And there's no shortage of those after one of these, m'boy, you can be sure about that!"

Ed, whose mind was just starting to wrap itself around the idea that this piece of glitzy janitorial equipment was meant to fly, couldn't help but ask.

"What? Why? What's so special about them?"

Maurice grinned, apparently he had been waiting for that question. "Well, y'see…there aren't many left. The man who made them, name of Jewkes, absolutely brilliant with an awl, made them all by himself. A genius, but a bit ment'l, y'know. Wouldn't let anyone see the spells he made, or how he made 'em. Well, this was back in the bad ol' days, when dark wizards were commoner than copper. He wakes up one night, hears a sound, goes downstairs to his shop, and a crew o' Death Eaters are lifting his entire stock." He shook his head sadly, and his jowls flapped a bit. "Eejit actually pulled his wand. Pointed and shot a fireball, just before they hit him with the big green."

"The 'Big Green'?"

"What we used to call it. Adava Kedavra. They probably tried to use it on yeh, the filthy bastards. Usin' it on a kid, how low can yeh be?" Morris growled to himself, his face set in a scowl.

"Tho', o'course, there is, what'sit called, _precedent _for that particular brand of evil" He muttered darkly. Ed had a strange feeling about that little sentence. It had, for lack of a better word, some kind of _weight_, as though it was an omen, or portent.

Morris sighed, and he emerged from whatever little avenue of the past he had ducked into in his mind. "It's alright, most Hogwarts first years don't know about it. I dunno if I should even be telling yeh… though I suppose yeh deserve t'know. It's the worst curse there is. It's, what it does is, is death. Instantaneous, merciless death."

"You're telling me that a wizard can kill…with two words?" Ed felt a chill run down his spine. The dull, leaden tones in Maurice's voice somehow made Ed realize how close he came to oblivion. _Too _close. It was only through _sheer luck_ that he had managed to interrupt the spell the second time... His quickly cut off that line of thinking, switching his attention back to the story.

"You said he got a shot off?"

"Yep." Maurice appeared distracted. His foot had just nudged a stick of wood on the floor, and when he looked down he gave a little cry of recognition.

"Ha! Found you!"

Ed was not deterred. "Did he get them?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, yes he did. Dead shot, he was."

"How many of those bastards did he hit?"

The older man paused. "None."

Ed stood there for a second, brows furrowed in confusion. "But… I thought you said he was a…"

"He wasn't aiming at the Death Eaters, son."

If he was confused before, now it was double.

"…He shot the Arrows, Ed."

"Man was a craftsman," Maurice said, with a grim smile. "Y'see, a real craftsman. And a man like that would sooner die than let something so perfect fall into the hands of evil. Remember that. Always remember that." The old man sighed, and the faraway look left his eyes as he refocused on Ed.

"Now that, is what I call a special broom."

….

Ed stood outside, holding the long floppy box that contained the Arrow.

Why the hell, pondered Ed to himself, did that old man give this to me again? He thought back to an hour ago, to just after the Maurice had told him the story of the broom's creator.

He told Ed to go downstairs, and wait for him at the kitchen table. A few minutes later, the man teetered into the room, and took a tray loaded with scones and two cups to the table. He stooped over, pulled a wand out from where it was tucked in his right sock, swished it through the air, and a steaming kettle of tea floated to the table. Ed's eyes narrowed. They had tea in silence, then…

"You were there."

The older man looked up, mildly surprised. "Eh?"

"You tucked your 'wand' if that's what you call it, into your sock. That's a habit of a man used to action, who would appreciate a hidden weapon. There's no love lost between the Ministry, whatever that is, and you as well, so I don't think you officially ever worked for them. Also, if Mr. Jewkes lived alone, and only the other Death Eaters were around, then there wouldn't have been anyone else to say what had happened. The way you describe it, the detail, leads me to believe that this is no secondhand report either. You were there."

Maurice shifted in his seat, and suddenly looked very tired.

"Mm, good, son, very clever. Yes, I was there."

He cleared his throat, and began.

"I was younger back then, about twenty years or so younger, I think. I'd fallen on hard times, and the Eaters' money was good. We were hired for smash and grab, that sort of thing, and most of us were just scared and desperate. The only real bastard of the group was our commander, he was the one who killed Mr. Jewkes."

"It took that man's death to make me see what I was doing was wrong. I turned in my cloak and mask the next day, and went to tell the Ministry all I knew. Things were a little dodgy for a while, but I pulled though fine. When You-Know-Who shuffled off, everything came up roses for me."

The man split his bulldog face with a huge grin, and with surprising speed, stood straight up. "And now, Mister Edward, you'd best be on your way! Nothing like a bit of tea to perk you right up, eh?"

Then, Ed remembered being pulled to his feet and practically pushed through the door. On his way out, he was handed a long and hastily Spellotaped box. Ed didn't have to ask what it was.

"…You're giving this to me? Why?"

"Mm, I've got a feeling about you, m'boy, a feeling!"

Ed thought for a moment, then said: "Well, but…" Something seemed to occur to him. "But if you were with the Death Eaters, does that mean that this broom is…sto…"

This was the only time the man had ever looked offended. "Absolutely not! I bought it while there were still some around. Saved my Galleons for five years, then got it offa little old grandma in Warwick who had no use for the thing. Now since I don't have a use for it either, and I'm not one of those museum prats, it goes to you. It was made to fly, and I'll be damned if I stick it in a glass box to rot in some collectors house when...", the beatific look returned to his face, "it should be biting the sky."

"Still, I don't think that…"

"The charity of strangers, mm, shouldn't be denied, Mister Edward!" Maurice cheerily interrupted. "And now, I bid you a good day, and great luck!"

The door shut fast, and came within a millimeter of Ed's nose. It surprised him so much, he nearly forgot to say thanks.

Edward shook himself out of his reverie. _Nearly time to talk to Albus again. He promised he would be at the Cauldron at six thirty_. He looked at his watch, which he had set off the clock in Maurice's kitchen.

"What? Arrgh, it's that late already?! And Diagon Alley is all the way on the other side of London! How the hell am I…"

He looked down at the box at his feet.

He shook his head so hard it almost fell off, defying the thought itself.

"Aaagh, no, no, no! Absolutely not! Terrible idea!"

However, despite the strengths of his protests, the urge to see what the broom could really do was powerful…

"But…" He said slowly to himself, "he did tell me not to be late…" A wicked grin slowly spread across his face.

He tore open the cardboard on one end like a kid at Christmas, and pulled the broom out. He grasped it firmly, put it near the ground, and just looked at it. It was so aquiline, it seemed like it was already moving. Not knowing what else to do, he straddled it carefully.

"Alright, show me what you've got!"

He pushed off with his legs.

And the world went mad.


	6. Chapter 6

Hey folks, it's me. I'm back, more or less. This update is a bit longer than usual, hope you enjoy it! I don't have much else to say, other that I love reviews, and the reviewers who write them! So then, if it's not too much trouble…?

Heh, well, can't blame me for trying.

FMA belongs to Square-Enix, Harry Potter to JK Rowling.

Chapter 6: Gear Prep

"Well, what have you found out about him? About Elric?"

"While we had our conversation, yes, I managed to gain a few insights, but I must admit, his true nature still escapes me. He is a profoundly mysterious boy."

Dumbledore sat behind his large impressive desk, surrounded by the strange whirling silver instruments that were scattered through the room. Fawkes, the impressive phoenix that had chosen him as a companion, sat on his perch. Occasionally itcasting a curious glance at the Deputy Headmistress, whose worry was plainly etched into her face. Dumbledore was leaning forward, his fingers steepled in front of his lips, his expression unreadable.

"Well, do we at least know where he is from?"

"A place surrounded by green plains." Dumbledore answered.

"What? But, sir, a wizard as skilled in Legilimency as you are should have been able to-"

Albus suddenly smiled, and McGonagall stopped speaking in surprise.

"I regret to say that, that was all that I could find."

"That's all!? Headmaster-"

"Please, allow me to explain. He, Edward, is certainly brilliant. In fact, I'd be hard-pressed to name an equal for him in terms of age and intelligence. But his psyche is also very…strange. While I was talking to him, I spoke at length about the tragedy I sensed in his past, and stumbled across some kind of… _capsule_ or partition in his mind. There was a massive amount of knowledge or memories stored within it that I was unable to divine. And, what's more, after I encountered it, it immediately ejected me from his mind, as if he were completely and utterly unreadable."

"_What!? _But that's not how Occlumency functions!"

"And yet, it happened. Occlumency is the only technique I know of which can successfully thwart the attentions of a decently skilled Legilimens, but Edward probably couldn't even tell me which end of a wand to point away from himself. He is completely inexperienced when it comes to magic. Therefore, it simply _cannot _be Occlumency,"

"…"

"Hmmm…" Dumbledore mused to himself. "I did see something, however, before I was pushed out. Something that disturbed me greatly."

"Well, tell me, please!"

"It was an eye. A giant, monstrous eye. It looked at me, with a violet pupil taller than I, and suddenly I was forced from my standing. I managed to keep a straight face in front of Edward, no small task, as it was a very disturbing experience. And do you know what else?"

"I can't believe this…what now?"

"He made no mention of the experience. It was as if whatever defended that knowledge was some kind of automatic mechanism, which operated completely independently of his will."

The office was filled with a sudden, ominous quiet. Something vast and dark seemed to be hovering in the air, breathing, making the atmosphere heavy, turgid, and silent.

It was broken by a sudden rapping on the window.

Dumbledore looked up from his desk in an expression of surprise, and walked over to his large bay of windows. He opened it, and suddenly a flock of owls, of every possible size, swarmed in with a barrage of wings and shrill hoots.

"Ah, I see the ministry has had another crisis." Dumbledore said, and a little aggravation entered into his voice. He picked up one of the owls at random, and removed the small scroll it was carrying, closed by the bright blue lozenge of wax that held the official seal of the Ministry.

With a small 'crack', the wax broke, and Dumbledore unrolled and read the letter.

McGonagall realized it was serious when she saw his back go laser-straight, and he sharply inhaled, involuntarily.

"Oh dear."

"It seems we will have to continue this conversation later, Professor. There is an urgent matter that requires my attention."

"There is _always _an urgent matter that requires your attention. Why don't you stay here, please, and help me resolve this Edward Elric issue?"

"Because," Said Albus with a groan, "Edward _is _the urgent matter."

….

_Ohcrapohcrapohcrap!_

Ed was flying like a maniac, the broom bucking, stalling, and jerking, wild as a rabid bronco. He could barely hang on, and his right hand, the only one still on the handle, was clinging so hard he was marking the enchanted wood through his glove.

He darted and flitted through the maze of chimneys and antennas like a minnow on bad acid. He was going so fast that only luck and whatever miraculous charms that went into the broom were keeping him from being a blond stain on the bricks of a house. The wind was not just clawing at him, but trying its damndest to _scrape _him right off. His eyes were streaming, he could hardly even breathe. Then, all of a sudden, a yellow glass window was in front of his eyes. He tried to brake, but realized he had no idea how.

"OH SHIII-!"

Ed crashed through the panes, lost his grip, and tumbled off into a ball, still sailing through the air. He somehow landed perfectly, in a hard wooden chair facing the window, forcing a surprised 'Ooof!' from his lungs. The broom shot through the air, only to impale itself, still quivering like a bowstring, into the heavy oak of the tabletop.

"Aghhhh…oww…" Ed managed to groan out, eyes squinting from the pain.

"Mr. Edward!" A surprised voice started, "Your punctuality leaves nothing to be desired! And a marvelous entrance, as well! Though perhaps," The familiar voice continued, with a gently chiding tone, "You might want to, ah, avoid these sorts of… displays of youthful exuberance in the future? If anyone, I'm sure that Tom here would appreciate it greatly."

Ed opened his eyes, and sitting before him with twinkling eyes and long beard, was Albus Dumbledore. He was in the Leaky Cauldron.

Ed looked around slowly, in an expression of overwhelming disbelief. "Oh, give me a break! Out of all the possible buildings I could run into, I end up here? This is such unbelievable bullsh-"

"This sort of thing is fairly common for wizards and other magical ilk, Mr. Edward." interrupted Dumbledore evenly. "If anything, it should be considered as merely further proof of your abilities. Also," Dumbledore allowed his voice to gain a bit of an edge, "I would appreciate if you refrain from your more colorful vocabulary, Mr. Edward. As I'm certain that you have learned by now, words do indeed have power." His gaze shifted from Edward to the broom that had sunk a full two inches into the wood. "Ah, I see you are now the proud owner of a Silver Arrow! Magnificent broom, this, and I thought there were so few left! You are a resourceful one, Mr. Edward, very resourceful!"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Although, next time, perhaps you should ride it in a less conspicuous place, hmm? Despite how exciting owning such a fine broom must be, I understand that-"

And here Dumbledore pulled out a roll of parchment from his robe, "-you were seen by well over 540 people in your whirlwind tour of our fair city, consisting of: 213 men, 243 women, a hundred or so children, and three very terrified packs of pigeons. Not to mention three NATO, two US, and one Russian spy satellites."

Edward sat there in amazement. _He knew everything I was doing, as I was doing it! Who IS this guy, really?_

Dumbledore continued on, talking as matter-of-factly as if he were discussing the weather.

"The Ministry seems to be in a state of utter panic, not that this is anything particularly new, mind you, but they are usually more quiet about it. I have explained this event away as a mean-spirited prank, so that they would not come seeking retribution upon your person, Mr. Edward. It seems some lout tied an unlucky first year student to a hexed broom, and set it loose. Unfortunate, but not entirely without precedent. I shouldn't imagine you will hear any more about it."

"Uh, thanks."

"My pleasure. After all, you _are _rather new at this, aren't you?"

He stooped down, and pulled up a large stack of slightly battered-looking leather bound books, lashed together with a thick belt.

"Hey, what are these?"

"Books, Mr. Edward. Or, to be precise, Hogwarts-owned copies of all the volumes required of a first year student at my school, which I am loaning to you. Quite everyday magical textbooks."

"_Ordinary_ magical textbooks? But… but one of them is _growling!_"

"Ah, yes. That would most likely be the copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, by Newt Scamander. Most editions are fairly tame, but this one was kept too close to a volume of _The Monster Book of Monsters_, and seems to have gone slightly wild. Just remember to watch your fingers, and perhaps count them beforehand. Then you will know if one goes missing."

Ed could only hope that that was a joke. He appreciated the Headmaster giving him the chance to bone up on the magical world, it was just that he didn't like the idea of literature that were capable of attack. He'd read so many books in the past, the idea that they might have somehow been reading him at the same time… He shuddered. Ed unconsciously rubbed his arm with his left hand…

And before he realized that he had pulled up his sleeve, Dumbledore had seen his metallic arm.

"Excuse me, Edward…your arm…" Dumbledore's expression was being carefully kept in place.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Edward pulled off his red jacket, to better show the Headmaster. _He's seen it already. I'd better act like I wasn't trying to hide it…_

"Astounding. I don't think I've ever seen its like."

"Really? Well, er, it's kind of a, uh, local specialty where I come from."

"Indeed?" Albus leaned in, suddenly looking intensely interested.

"Um, yeah." Ed raised his arm to the light. "My left leg is the same way. It's called 'automail'. It's a kind of advanced prosthesis that uses the electrical signals sent out by the brain to the residual nerve fibers in a lost limb and amplifies them so that it can move like a normal one. It's pretty rare because of how painful the operation is to attach it to the base of the arm or leg, and because skilled mechanics are hard to find, but you can't beat it for convenience. And, it's a lot stronger than a normal arm."

"But," Ed said, softly, "you still can't beat the real thing."

Dumbledore frowned. "I see. Remarkable. However, I assume that you choose not to display it publicly?"

"What makes you say-"

"Not many wear gloves in the summer, Edward."

Ed looked surprised, then laughed. "Yeah, I guess that's true."

"Hmm. Well, I lack the necessary reagents to simply restore your arm at this time, so I hope this will do. Please hold it out, if you would be so good."

Ed decided to play along. "Like this?"

"Yes, thank you."

Slowly, Dumbledore drew his wand, and waved its tip back and forth over the metal. At first it seemed like nothing was happening, but slowly, as if it were a watercolor brush, something flowed out of it, coating the air in a flesh colored hue. In less than a minute, it was done.

Ed stared, transfixed. It was beautiful, _magical_. It was _his arm. _Even down to the delicate blue traceries of his veins, it was his arm. He reached out and touched it…

His fingers felt only cold hardness. The small spark that had glowed in his eyes only a moment before drowned.

Dumbledore saw it die, and felt a reaching pain in his heart. But now, he was sure of something that he had been hoping to be true, and it gladdened him.

"Yes, it is only an illusion. I apologize, but it should help stop some of those pressing questions you understandably would like to discourage."

"Thanks. I…appreciate it."

Dumbledore only smiled.

"I am not done yet, Edward."

"Tom?" Called out the enigmatic headmaster. The bartender stepped out from behind the counter, and walked over, his face full of respect and admiration.

"Yes, sir?"

"Please, feel free to put that window on my tab. Also, this is the young man that we discussed earlier: Edward. He will be staying here for the rest of the summe

"WHAT?! Hey, don't I get a say in this?"

"Oh, I don't know, sir, that doesn't seem wise." Said Tom, in a tone that was just barely perceptively condescending. " It can get a little rowdy in here, and isn't he a little young-"

'Twitch!' Ed's eyebrow jumped, like a plucked guitar string. A small vein started to throb on his temple.

"-to be on his own, I mean, look how small he is-"

'Twitch-twitch!' Ed's posture took on the semblance of an over-wound spring…

"One good hit and he would go sailing away like a-"

"WHO'RE YOU CALLING SO SMALL AN ANT COULDN'T SEE HIM?!"

"Whoa! Easy now, son, I was just-" But Ed had already jumped off the table into a knee-first kick, his face full of comic fury.

"Edward! STOP!" shouted a chagrined Dumbledore.

It was too late, Edward had already launched into full-blown brawl mode. And as anyone who has participated in a good scrap can tell you, they have a tendency of pulling others in…

Several tough-looking hooligans sitting at the bar, putting down shots of fire whiskey, were crouched over their spirits when Ed jostled one on them by accident, making him spill a small amount.

"Oi! Moi drink! Youer dead, yew lil' punk!" he slurred out. He stood up. Then his five friends stood up, with the intention of turning the scrum into a massacre. He and his five friends joined the fight.

….

Three minutes later, all six of them were in a bruised and stinking heap on the sidewalk, wondering what the hell just happened.

Inside, the bar was a mess. Broken stools, tables, and bottles littered the floor. There were even a few scorch marks on the wall. Tom was holding a cold pack to what looked like was going to be a lovely black eye, wheras sitting down in one of the few remaining intact chairs, and looking very pleased with himself, was Edward Elric.

"Well, Tom, whaddya say now?" Ed said in a voice dripping with smugness.

"Okay, headmaster. He can… handle himself. I'll board him, but only because it's for you." Tom said relentingly.

"Thank you, Tom. I am sure he will be happy to help out around your establishment perhaps as-" Dumbledore paused, surveying the damage with a keen eye, "a bouncer, let us say? At least, in what free time he has, he will. And as for you, Mr. Edward, did you really have to do that bit where you swung them around by their shirt collars and threw them out the door? I found it unnecessary."

"I was a little caught up in the moment, sir." Ed said, with as close to a straight face as he could manage.

"And swinging from the ceiling fixtures while hurling insulting implications about their relatives and a menagerie of domesticated animals?"

"It's a bit of a blur, really." Said Ed with a sly smile.

"I'm certain." The blue-eyed wizard said, wearing the keen mirthful look of one who can see through steel, but enjoys a good one when he hears it. "Your test is in two weeks."

"What?" Said Ed, his smile disappearing. "What do you mean, test?"

"A test, Edward. You must have taken a test before. You have three weeks to learn the contents of those books, and then I shall return and give you tests the equivalent of your year –end Ordinary Wizarding Levels. Then, I will bring you the next set of books, and we shall repeat the process. You have very little time if you want to catch up to your proper year, going by your age."

"But what makes you think I want to-?" blurted out Ed.

"One summer for four years of Hogwarts!" Dumbledore continued, unfazed. "Were it anyone but you, Mr. Edward, I would think it would be quite impossible."

"What!? But you don't know anything about me!"

Dumbledore's smile could have lit a room.

"I suppose I should tell you something, to be fair. Do you remember that man with the wire-rimmed spectacles and the hat several sizes too big? The one that you helped with that number chart earlier?"

Ed thought back. So much had happened in the last few hours that it was difficult to-oh, right, him. How could he forget that fashion abomination?

"Yeah, why?"

"Edward, that man was in fact Phineas E. Vector, Hogwarts Head of Arithmancy, and husband to Septima Vector, a formidable professor in her own right. That problem that you completed was called _Grobble's Really Unsolvable Postulate_ by wizards, and it is related directly to the phases of the moon, ley line configurement, and, for some inscrutable reason, cabbage. Of course, since you solved it, we will have to think of a newer, and perhaps a better name. In fact, very few wizards and witches even knew of it with the old name, but some spent their entire lives trying to unravel it. And yet, within ten minutes, you had written out the solution on the brown paper of Professor Vector's shopping bag. You, Edward, are our Alexander's sword! And so, I have faith in you, that you will rise to this challenge. Don't let me keep you, you have work to do!"

Dumbledore have him a hearty chuckle, a surprisingly strong pat on the back, and strolled merrily out of what was left of the door, leaving a confused and aggravated Edward behind him.

"But-but-but… y-you can't do this to me! Hey! HEY! GET BACK HERE, YOU SENILE OLD MAN!"

Dumbledore gave him a flippant wave of his hand over his shoulder, and left whistling the bridge to _Greensleeves_.

Ed shifted his incredulous gaze to the departing wizard, the stack of books, and back again.

"…Oh, great."

…

Later that night, Ed had settled down in his smallish but fully adequate room, and pored over the books like a man possessed. He didn't believe a word of any of it, of course, as he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop on this issue of magic. He knew it was some kind of trick. That bit with the broomstick was impressive, though. He hadn't the faintest idea how they managed that one, at least within the bonds of the First Law. His arm too… he was looking straight at it, and he still couldn't tell it was fake.

Enigmas were crowding his head. First off, why was the surroundings of the Gate black and white? When an alchemic reaction took place, you could generally tell the outcome of alchemy, or at least who or what produced it, by the color. His own alchemy, and his brother's, was generally blue, red was usually reserved for those using an unrefined Stone, golden light signaled the arrival of the Gate, and when it turned red, purple, and black… it meant that the reaction was unbalanced and you were going to lose something to make up for it. But black and white? And the Gate…what happened to the Gate itself? What could damage a… a _symbol?_

In a way, he was grateful to be studying again, even if it was for something that was totally made up. So much had happened in such a short period, Ed hadn't been able to find a familiar ground to stand on. At least back in Munich he had his… father. Here, you never knew what was going to happen next, whether or not some maniac with a brown painted roman candle was going to burst into the room, set it off, and claim to be a Dark Wizard. But with a book, you knew where you were. Open it up, read what's inside, flip page, and repeat. Simple. …Well, with most books, at least. (His copy of _Fantastic Beasts_ took this time to snarl and struggle viciously with the uneven table leg it was propping up, a solution that Ed thought brilliantly resolved two problems at once. He was deliberately avoiding reading it.).

He was about two thirds through _The Standard Book of Spells Vol. 1_, when he finally conked out, and fell asleep with his face on the writing desk.

…

_Are you sure that you didn't give him too much to do, Albus?_

_I am certain he can handle it. Besides, I believe this to be exactly what he needs._

_Oh?_

_As mediocre as my skill with Ligilimency may be, Minerva, I was able to gather that he most at home with a domineering and mocking superior figure, a decent outlet for his violent temper, and an ungodly amount of curricula. Also, that boy knows the darkness and evil in men's hearts better than perhaps even the worst of us. He has been exposed to death on a scale that is almost incomprehensible to a decent man. Do not underestimate him, Professor, I believe that he may well surprise us all._

_Is that all we know about him, your feelings? If you ask me to not pursue this, then of course I won't, but we don't even know where he comes from! Those yellow eyes…is that even a natural color?_

…_Natural? _

_Don't look at me like that, you know what I mean. It's just that…I cannot believe that we only just discovered a talent like his! What else could we be missing?_

…_I do not believe that we missed anything._

_What do you mean? That he just appeared? Do you think he might be…some manner of snare set for us by... him?_

_Alas, I do not yet know. All I can say about him, is that there certainly is more to him than what meets the eye. I have seen something in him which gives me an immense amount of hope._

_Oh, and what was that? What did you read?_

_I did not discover this in his mind, Minerva. When I covered his arm in illusion, a light of genuine wonder and appreciation filled his eyes. For a moment, his inner character shined through like a beacon. _

…_I don't understand._

_This has always been a concern of mine, a personal concern that may or may not have some basis in reality. While walking to the restroom yesterday, do you know what I saw? A young man, a student of ours for perhaps six years, had accidentally knocked off three or four books from a shelf. Do you know what he did next?_

_I'm sure I have no idea, as sure as I am that I have no idea what you're talking about._

_These books had fallen to the floor, not three feet from where he was standing, and what did he do? Instead of merely stooping over to pick up the books, he used Wingardium to levitate them up to his hands. Edward has never had that luxury, it shows in his face. He could not magic himself a loaf of bread, much less a cure for his ills. He fought tooth and nail for every inch that he gained. I ask you, Minerva, which of these two would have a true appreciation for magic?_

_Ah…I think… I see._

_So, we are in agreement then? His potential far outweighs the risk of taking him in?_

…_Yes, Headmaster._

…

"Edward!"

Someone was shaking him awake.

"Hey Ed, get up! C'mon, busy day!"

Ed opened his eyes, and, quick as a snakebite, grabbed the hand on his shoulder in a bone-crushing grip. His other hand closed instinctively on his nib sharpening penknife, and raised it overhead. His eyes were cold, and blank.

"WHOA KID, CALM DOWN!"

Ed blinked, and the last day's events came back in a flood.

"Eh…sorry…"

"Jayzus! I thought ya really were gonna stab me!"

"I…didn't mean to." The knife fell limply from his fingers. Ed looked down at his rumpled clothes, and where he was sitting. "I guess I fell asleep studying."

Tom had mostly recovered from his little brush with death by now. "Er…Yeah. Listen, Dumbledore gave me some Galleons to go and get you your wand. We'll pick up some breakfast on the way."

"Oh, well then, I'll just clean up a little, and then we can-" Ed stopped, and replayed Tom's last words in his head. "Wait…get me my _what!?_"

…

"So you're telling me that one of the gold ones is equal to seventeen of the silver ones-"

"And the sickles are worth twenty-nine knuts." Tom replied.

"That's the copper ones?"

"Yeah, you got it."

"…That makes absolutely no sense."

"Don't have to. It's magic."

Ed was already in a poor mood, and the parade of inexplicable oddities that presented themselves to him in this world were doing nothing to improve it. Despite Dumbledore's advice to take it all in stride, his scientifically trained mind wanted to rebel. To find out where the hidden levers and gears were that worked it all.

They were walking outside of Tom's shop, in an unusually nice summer day. Of course, despite the weather, Ed seemed to have his own dark cloud following him. They turned down an alley, and reached a brick wall.

"So, is this the great Diagon Alley?" Ed said sarcastically.

Tom just smiled. "Give us a second now."

He pulled out his wand from his belt, and touched a brick.

Suddenly, the wall seemed to _unbuild_ itself, and a tide of golden light, as well as a mild breeze wafted from the hole. It carried a strange smell, like a mix of cinnamon rolls, a grandmother's spice cabinet, and something vaguely sour, like pickles or sauerkraut.

Ed stepped through the hole boldly, and into a wondrous riot of color and noise.

Wizards, in robes of every hue imaginable walked the spiral-cobblestoned street. Strange shops with windows of colored glass, and doors in un-doorlike shapes lined the crowded street. Ed's head swung back and forth, as if it was on a swivel, trying to soak all of it in.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley, Ed."

…

An old storefront, with "Ollivanders: Fine Wandmaker since 832 B.C." written in faded white paint upon the dingy shop window, was their destination. Ed wiped at the glass with his sleeve, and peered in. He saw a single wand, resting on a dusty velvet cushion.

"Man, doesn't this guy ever clean?"

"Mr. Ollivander is a bit…set in his ways, but trust me, he's the best." replied Tom.

"Alright, if you say so."

"Okay. I'll wait here. Here's your money, go inside, and he'll take care of yeh."

Tom placed a heavy-ish bag that clinked softly into Ed's hands, and opened the door for him.

"You're not going in?"

"Naw. Ollivander says if more than one person goes in to the shop, it can throw off his measurements, like."

"_Riiight_. Okay, whatever."

Ed stepped inside, and nearly sneezed from the heavy dust and mildew smell in the air. Most of the shop was shadowy, and crowded with hundreds of boxes, like a shoe store for people with very thin but very long feet. There was one frail-looking chair in the middle of the room.

"Hello," came a whisper-quiet voice to Ed's left, "can I help you?"

Ed nearly jumped out of his shoes.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that. I suppose that I can be too quiet at times. My name is Mr. Ollivander. As I've never met you before, I can only surmise that you are here for a wand? Well, pleased to meet you." Ed looked at the strange man before him. He was ghostly, with a shock of white hair on top of his head, and large, pale eyes, like silver dollars. They seemed, for some reason, even more piercing than Dumbledore's, and at the moments when Ollivander's face was mostly in shadow, Ed felt that they might be glowing.

He extended his right hand, and unthinkingly, Ed took it and shook it. Mr. Ollivander seemed to be the picture of personability, until about a half second after their hands touched. Then, absolute shock painted his features.

"Your hand…it is not…alive?"

Ed smiled ruefully, "Yeah, I guess I should have mentioned that."

"It is not…some form of muggle technology, is it? No, no, no, it cannot be, it would not function in Diagon Alley if it was… And, is this your wand hand?"

"What?"

"Your, eh, dominant hand?"

"Oh, yeah, it is."

"Hmmm…interesting…yes." The wandmaker still seemed very upset, and moved animatedly, back and forth, pacing the floor. "This is extremely unusual. I am not certain if any wand in this store will work for you, considering your unique condition. By the way, that is a marvelous illusion spell on your arm. Who made it?"

"Dumbledore. What do you mean, not work?"

"Wand matching is a delicate process, Mr…"

"Elric."

"Mr. Elric. If your arm is synthetic, it will not provide the true measurements that I require to match you to a wand. And there is the matter of the wand itself. A wand chooses its wielder, you see, and it may be quite difficult to bind the two if the wielder will be gripping it with, haha, an iron fist, so to speak."

Ed remembered what Dumbledore had said in their last meeting. "Just go through the motions, Mr. Ollivander. I've got a feeling that it'll be all right."

"Hmm. Well, I suppose I haven't any other choice, have I? And I do enjoy a good challenge…"

He bustled among the shelves, and came back with an armful of boxes.

"Now then, a little swish is all that I need. Hold please…" Mr. Ollivander piled the boxes onto the spindly chair. He procured a well-used tape measure from the closest shelf, then reached far back, and pulled out a very cobwebby box the size of four stacked VHS tapes.

"I hardly ever find it necessary to use them," Mr. Ollivander said in an offhand way, as he opened the box to reveal an ornate set of brass calipers, "-but for you, I think I might actually need to. There, and raise your arm like so…"

Ed stood there while Ollivander took measurements: the length of his arm, the width at four different points, the span of his fingers, and countless others. At times, Ed suspected that Ollivander was not so much measuring him, but being dragged from place to place by the tape itself. He tried not to think about it.

"All done! I must say, whoever designed this limb of yours is quite the craftsman. The proportions are very nearly perfect."

"Yeah…she's really something." He involuntarily started thinking of- No, not now! Later, not now.

"Hmm? Well then, let's get started. Rosewood and unicorn hair, eleven inches. Supple, nice bit of play at the end…no."

He pulled it from Ed's hands nearly before he completed the motion.

"Right…next up is ebony and dragon heartstring, nine inches, powerful for potion work."

Ed waved it through the air. He was grateful now that Tom didn't follow him in, because he felt like an idiot.

"No? Hmm…Cedar and phoenix feather, eight and a half inches, charm's a treat…"

He tried again. Nothing.

"Ironwood and phoenix feather, ten inches, good for transfiguration."

Bored by now, Ed swished it high, and the first feeling he had in years swam down his arm. It felt pleasant, like a hot bath. It felt…right.

"Ah, perfect!"

Mr. Ollivander had noticed as well. Ed grinned, brought his hand down…and a gout of blue-gold sparks launched out of the end that melted a basketball-sized hole through the shop window.

"BUGGER!" Someone screamed from the street.

Ed ran up to the hole and looked outside. Tom was hastily jumping up and down on his jacket. He was trying to put out some bluish flames that seemed to be resisting his efforts while swearing like a sailor. A few curls of smoke were starting to rise from his shoes.

"Blimey, my favrit jacket…" He looked up at the chagrined alchemist.

Ed tried a cheerful smile.

"Damnit, lad! Can I take yeh anywhere?!" Ed groaned, and hung his head.

Mr. Ollivander, remarkably calm for a man who owned a newly perforated shop, smiled primly.

"I believe we've found his wand."


	7. Chapter 7

_Oh yeh've heard of Napoleon,_

_Napoleon Bonaparte…_

_He conquered all of Europe,_

_he conquered every part…_

_But when he came to Ireland,_

_his conquest to begin…_

_Sure, we beat him back_

_with cabbage stalks_

_in the fields of Magheralin._

Happy St. Patty's Day, gals and gents. Yes, that's right. This update has been waiting in the wings since March 17th. For several reasons beyond my control, and a few that were, in all honestly, well within it, this delay has stretched to over a month, which is unconsciable. My sincerest apologies, but I hope you're willing to read it, just the same.

Also: 80+ reviews! Woo! You're all awesome! Why celebrate 80, you ask?

Really, shouldn't the question be, 'Why not?'.

Chapter 7: Natural 

…

"Breakfast!"

"Mmmrgh..."

"Get up, Ed, or yeh won't eat!"

Ed reluctantly threw off the covers, got into a threadbare bathrobe, and trundled down the wooden staircase like a zombie.

He wore slippers, even in summer the stone floors of the pub were unpleasantly cool in the morning. The one on his left foot was more of a sop to Tom, otherwise the metal made a 'Clunk!' with every other step he took. The barman also said something about it marking up his nice floors, but since the bar had historically been the sight of fourteen wizard news-worthy brawls, three near riots and an attempted (and unbelievably bungled) fly-by bombing, Ed maintained that 10.7 kilos of metal couldn't possibly do any more damage. Some parts of the stone, if you looked close and closed one eye, were indistinguishable from the Apollo 11 photos of the surface of the moon.

Every morning for four weeks it had been the same thing. Breakfast was pure protein and fat: Eggs, hoss and sausage. At Edward's insistence, Tom bought a bunch of oranges, which usually represented the only fruit serving that they had in a day. Ed generally ate enough to feed three grown men, to the continual amazement of Tom, and washed it all down with a huge mug of tea. There was coffee as well, and if Ed had pushed the envelope a little too far the night before, he would grab a cup of that too. (Tom had, two days after first meeting him, offered him milk as a creamer, to which Edward had expressed his opinion firmly by nailing the pitcher to the wall with a well-thrown fork.) After that it was pure studying and physical training, breaking for thirty minute meals and the occasional trip to the bathroom. After all, Teacher had told him that to better the mind, he had to better his body. He took it to heart.

Ed conditioned his body through a tortuous regime: he would work out twice a day, once for weight training to increase his muscle mass, using equipment he transmuted himself out of stone and scrap metal.

The other routine was intended to increase quickness and reflexes, as well as combat skills. While studying the world and how it had changed, he learned of martial arts, aikido, kung fu and other disciplines. He convinced Tom to stop by a local bookstore and pick up a few books for him on the subject, as well as a DVD. Mostly they were worthless, but a few were genuine, and very useful. He got in his practice with a sandbag and a strange training dummy that was built like a complex street-sign, with slats sticking out in all directions, called a _Muk Yan Jong_. He might not know his way around a wand yet, but from what he had seen of wizards and witches in this world, they rarely anticipated physical attacks. He resolved to take it and any other advantage he could get.

He would go on runs in his training outfit, sweats and what they called a "wife-beater" cotton jersey. Already in admirable physical condition, this regimen had started to noticeably positively affect his physique, and with his distinctive long blond hair and far-away yellow eyes, it was no real surprise that several of the local girls seemed to have outdoor chores exclusively on the days that he ran past. He would finish with Tai Chi, a calming art that he had learned only recently, by asking to join a group of practitioners that he had seen while running past the local park. The rest of the day, he voraciously devoured his books, devised clever tests for himself, and practiced with the wand that Mr. Ollivander had made for him. He was amazed with the immediacy of his spellwork, how easy it seemed to come. Ed even managed to nail the _Wingardium Leviosa_ charm in one go, despite Tom telling him it took him a full week to get it back when he was at school.

The only thing he was lacking was a sparring partner... his brother. In a way, all of this was a dodge, a way of avoiding thinking about the crisis he was in. By filling his day with activity, he didn't have time to wonder about Winry, Rose, Mustang, or his brother. He didn't even know if he managed to pull Al back from the Gate. His original plan was to sacrifice his and Al's memory of the last three years as payment, but his recollections, as far as he knew, seemed to have survived. Did that mean that his brother didn't? That his attempt failed? Argh, it was all so messed up!

"Ed, we got trouble!"

Ed, who had been sitting with his feet propped up on a table all the while pondering these troubling possibilities, shook himself out of his thoughts. Time to go to work.

He flipped his feet to the floor, and stood up. Ed stretched relaxedly, lithe… like a panther.

So far, his bouncing duties hadn't been too time-consuming. It rarely took him more than five minutes to settle matters between patrons, who were usually too far gone to put up much of a fight anyway. However, he could instantly tell that this scrum was going to be different.

A trio of men, who by the look of them seemed to have troll in their family tree, were picking a fight against what appeared to be a hairy human mountain. The man-hill was putting up a good fight, but the three of them had come looking for trouble, and were playing dirty with broken bottles.

He was about to be on the badly losing end, the kind with a eulogy, if Ed didn't do something.

It was good then, that he intended to do _several_ somethings.

He walked over to one of them, who seemed to have progressed to the 'raving drunk' stage of intoxication.

Ed tapped him on the shoulder.

"Excuse me." He said politely, but firmly.

The thug ignored him. "-So's why I think we should, me and my mates, right, just stick ya-"

"Ex_**cuse**_ me." Ed tapped him on the shoulder again, and spoke a little louder.

"-let all that dirty giant blood out, y'nawmean? Just stick, and _twist-_"

"_Excuse me._" Ed layered his voice with an extra veneer of command.

"WHAT?"

The drunk spun around, confirming Ed's suspicions. He had a face like a pug.

"Who you fight is your business, but the Leaky Cauldron doesn't support murder on principle. If you persist, I'll have to throw you out."

They stared at him dumbly. It was one those eerie moments, where a man does something unbelievably stupid, like jump a gorge on a tricycle, but just for a second it looks like he might actually pull it off…

And the moment ended.

They laughed obscenely.

"The little'un wants a scrap!"

"S'funny-"

"-should tie'm to a chair!"

"Baby wants his bottle!"

They continued on, as racociously as they could, then turned their attention back to their victim.

They didn't notice Ed flexing until he dramatically threw his traditional red hoodie at their feet.

"Okay, I get it." Ed said, standing in his black shirt and slacks, "I'm younger and _slightly _smaller than you. You think you're tough, which is just a _little_ bizarre considering how you're ganging up on this poor guy, who's probably already drank enough to put you three together under the table, but that's not the issue right now."

He bent down, touched his toes, then shot upright again. His braid made a 'thwap!' sound when it flipped back between his shoulder blades.

"The issue is, that you think you're tough, tough enough to be above the rules. So, then, if you are, you should beat me easy, right? Three _tough guys_ like you."

He grinned. "Care to try?"

The three of them stared at him, then started to glower.

"Here, I'll even let you take the first swing. Go on. _Try me._"

One of them, the tallest and broadest, had had enough. He took a wide right hook, the gold flash of the ring on his hand cutting an arc through the air. Time slowed down… the blow seemed unstoppable, like a sledgehammer…

Ed blocked it with one hand. The force sent his feet sliding back a few inches, but nothing else on him gave a millimeter. He grinned at the stunned thug.

Exploiting the man's surprise, Edward kept a strong grip on the arm, and ducked under it, twisting the man's limb behind him until his legs buckled.

" 'Ey! Lemme go, or I'll-!"

"Sure!" Ed smiled toothily. He placed his boot squarely onto the man's rear, released his arm, and pushed. Hard.

The thug was sent sprawling into his surprised friends, who were caught off guard. They fell over with the effort of stopping him.

Ed strolled over, his hands clasped nonchalantly behind his head.

"I'm a little confused here, guys. Maybe you can help me out. If _I'm _a baby, then does that means that _you _just got your ass kicked by a baby?" he said, standing over them with an enormous grin.

"That's _it_, you little-!" The thug growled as he glanced down, and pulled a wicked-looking knife from his shoe. He looked up to find exactly where the kid was standing, his legs ready to spring…

'Clap!' _Zzshwiiiiiii…_

…And suddenly he was eye-level with a two-foot length of polished sharpened steel protruding from the alchemist's arm, like the liquid metal Terminator from T2.

"Wh-wh-what?!"

"You were saying?" Ed said, his words clipped, smile gone.

"Who, _what_ are-?" He stuttered, eyes widened in shock.

"Get out. _Now._"

They got up, and ran out of the bar, stumbling over each other like puppies.

"Heh, thought so." Ed clapped again, and the blade withdrew back into his arm. For a few seconds, the automail beneath where the sword had protruded was visible, then the illusion misted back over seamlessly.

Edward turned around, to see that the giant man had somehow been able to get back on his feet. He teetered unsteadily, and Ed ran over to try and brace him up, though he barely reached above his belt buckle.

"Whoa big guy! Be careful, all right?"

The man mumbled something.

"Sorry? I couldn't catch that."

"He's embarrassed, Ed." Tom said, emerging from behind the bar. "Hagrid here is famous for ne'er losing a fight. The fact there were three 'o them don't make much difference t'him."

Ed glanced at the bar where Hagrid had been sitting. Bottles cluttered it, like they were jostling for position.

"Hagrid? But the only reason why he lost is because… because he drank like a fish! …Why'd they pick a fight with him, anyway?"

Tom answered that question with stony silence.

" 'S cause 'o what I am." He said darkly. "They think I deserve ter die."

"What? What, because he's big?" Ed grinned. "So what? I'm pretty tall myself!"

Tom snickered, but Hagrid's mood was too foul to be so easily lightened.

"Yeh don' _unnerstan'_. They think I shoul' die. 'Cause o' what my parents... I can' _help_ it. I can' help what they are. An' I can' help what _I_ am. An' they wan' me _dead._"

Ed's smile faded, curled in at the edges like old wallpaper. His brow crumpled with the effort of thought, then un-creased in amazement.

"Giant's blood… Your parents were _actual_ giants?! Giants are real?!"

Tom and Hagrid stared at him as though he had suddenly grown antennae.

" 'Course, Ed. Giants're real. Everybody knows that. I thought you were supposed t'be studyin' th' magical world. Been playin' _hookee_, have ye?" Tom said, with an accusing look.

"Hey! I'd study magical creatures a hell of a lot more if the book would only stop _trying to_ _eat my hand!_ I just thought that giants were, well, just a sort of figure of speech, not actually _real!_"

Ed realized how that may have sounded, and hastened to add,

"No offense, Hagrid, I don't mean to say that _you _don't exist, just that I didn't think that _giants_… um… Ah, dammit. I'll _never _get used to all of this."

Hagrid looked up for a few minutes, then offered up a small smile.

"So, yeh're, ah, muggle-born, then? Yeh're parents weren't wizards?"

"…No, they, they weren't wizards."

Hagrid smiled a little more.

"Oh, don't worry, lad, no offense taken. There's plenty of others just like you, tryin' ter adapt. …It's hard, innit? Teh get used teh all've this?"

Ed smiled back, wanly. It was difficult, at first, but the more he thought about it, the more the more the culture shock seemed manageble, compared with what he'd been through just days… ago… God, it _had _been just days ago! Losing Al, fighting the Homunculi for the last time, it had happened so recently, it was mind-boggling. For some reason, it felt like monthshad gone by.

Ed realized he hadn't answered Hagrid's question.

"Yeah, it really is."

If only this _weren't _the least of his problems right now…

"It's hard, alright, but it's _worth _it. I met me greatest friends in Hogwarts, _real _friends. In fact, I'm always meetin' more."

Hagrid shifted his gaze toward Edward.

"I've got teh say, I've _ne'er _seen a lad yer age fight like that. I din't see that last bit yeh did, with that blue light, that got them runnin', but what I did see was amazin'."

"Uh, thanks."

"Yer accent is strange, too… where are ye from? And what school do yeh come from? Beuxbatons is too poncey for some'un who fights like that, and Durmstrang… well, yeh don'_ look_ like a right-bastard…"

Tom snickered.

"An, all th' other schools are too far away…"

Ed was suddenly nervous. What could he say? "Um, well…"

"Hogwarts, Hagrid. Dumbledore 'imself has an interest in 'im. He asked me to put 'im up. Even got a special permit to let 'im use magic over th' summer." Tom said, as he brought out a broom and dustbin from behind the bar.

"_Dumbledore?!_" Hagrid gaped.

"Yessir. And listen to this: he's doin' three years of courses _in three months._"

"Tha's impossible!"

"Dumbledore thinks he can. An', it's a secret, so keep it under your beard. I'm only tellin' you, cause you're the groundskeeper." Tom favored Ed with a wink. "You'll be seein' 'im sooner or later."

Hagrid looked at Ed with something like wary awe.

"Bloody hell. I suppose I'll be hearin' your name pretty soon." He gave a short laugh.

"Jus' when I thought the fourth years couldn' get more interestin'. If yeh pull this off, yeh might even give Ms. Granger a run for her money."

"Ms. …Granger?"

"Yeh'll meet her if yeh go to Hogwarts, trus' me. Especially if yeh get sorted inter Gryffindor."

"Sorted??"

"Don' worry, Dumbledore'll take care of that."

Tom cut off any more of Edward's queries. "Ed, it's last call, and Hagrid here is the only one at the bar. Why don't you go upstairs and study? You know Dumbledore's coming tomorrow. Ask him all the questions you want then."

"Okay. But I'll need some ink thinner, a torch and a pair of scissors. Also, the thickest pair of gloves you own."

"Wha?! Why?"

"To put the fear of God into a four-hundred page hardcover."

"Well, two of those things are in the cabinet in the hall, next to the loo. And here's me oven mitts."

"Thanks, Tom. If you hear some bangs and crashes, that's just me."

Edward tromped up the stairs, leaving the barroom strangely silent.

"So, Hagrid, one for the road? What're ye having?"

"Dragon Whiskey, on th' rocks, Tom."

"Heh. Tha's pretty somber-soundin', comin' from you."

"Hmm?" Hagrid wasn't really listening. He had a strange sort of air about him, like he was about to say something that he had been thinking about for a long time. It was the sacred duty of barmen everywhere to lend an ear to their penitent patrons who worshiped in the church of alcohol, to be therapists in smudged aprons with the patience of trees in one hand, and a glass in the other. Tom, an adept of this order, recognized the signs.

The ice clinked in his glass, and Tom waited for Hagrid to speak.

Hagrid spoke, his words just slightly soggy around the edges. "Incredible kids, aren't they? Incredible kids. You know Harry? He's beat You-Know-Who three times now. Hermione, she's probably run out of books ter read in th' library tha's not written in some other language, an' Ron…if I had to pick anyone ter be Harry's equal in bravery, it'd be him, though, God bless 'im, he hasn't figgered it out yet."

He turned his glass so the ice caught the light, and gazed at the refractions it cast on the ruddy countertop.

"Incredible kids, showin' up all over the place. Maybe somethin's in the water." He grinned.

Tom shared Hagrid's rueful smile. "Well, I've been watchin' Ed, an' I can tell ya, he's after somethin'. Never seen anyone that determined."

Some noises began emanating from upstairs, that sounded an awful lot like a struggle, and quite a bit of muffled swearing. It was largely ignored.

"Yeah, doesn' surprise me at all. …You know they're goin' ter be our leaders soon, righ'? They're goin' ter be big-shots."

Tom nodded.

Immeadiately there was a clamor above their heads, a racket similar to an overly large beetle frenziedly retreating across a wooden floor, followed by the loud 'Crack!" of something very heavy falling from several feet onto something else.

"…Makes you feel good about the future, doesn't it?"

There came an unmistakable cry of triumph.

"Oh, absolutely. Feel better already."

…

"All right. You can now put down your quills, quill."

Ed was tired. Ed was _unbelievably_ tired. It might have been his imagination, but his metal hand seemed to _creak _in protest to its ill-use, and his neck and shoulders weren't much better. Tackling seven OWLs in one day was a devastatingly large task, no matter how sure he was of his abilities. And, as if that weren't bad enough, there were several hiccups in the process. He managed to levitate the stone that Dumbledore put in front of him, but his nerves must have made him flick his wand too hard, because it shot straight up and punched a hole in the ceiling. Astronomy went pretty well, he knew he passed Transfiguration with flying colors (though he only turned the mouse into the snuffbox once he was assured that the mouse wouldn't be harmed), and he did all right in the Defense Against the Dark Arts, even managing to remember the only way to effectively chase a Nogtail out of the farm it was cursing was with an all-white dog. His Forgetfulness Potion was so potent that the steam coming off of it made him forget what he was doing, and he nearly walked back to his room to study for a final he had already taken. The History of Magic final, perhaps the one subject he had learned the most from, was of course dead-boring. Ed highly doubted that there was a single living professor willing to teach it. And his Herbology exam consisted of a very long essay on why rowan leaves made excellent mulch for plants used to ward off Dark pests, as well as a cure for shingles. He just _barely _had finished when the headmaster had told him time was up.

Ed pushed back the wooden chair that he had spent the day in, and stretched his aching muscles. Then he walked over to the desk that Dumbledore was sitting at, and handed him the scroll containing his last final. They were inside Tom's other spare room. It had been hastily converted into a testing room by Dumbledore, who shrunk down the bed to the size of a thimble and put an additional bare table, with a huge stack of books and quill stand, and chair in its place. The silver haired wizard was currently sitting behind this desk.

"Very good, Edward! I will have these graded immediately."

"Headmaster Dumbledore? I have some questions." Ed queried.

"Well, I certainly hope so."

"Um, what?"

"Think of how dreadful things would be if you, or anyone else, didn't have questions! Terrible indeed. Please, continue."

"…I heard about this thing called Sorting, sir, and I was wondering if you would mind-"

"Telling you the what and why of it? No, I do not! I take it you already know of Godric Griffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin. If not, then I imagine I perhaps should take your final in Magical History, fold it into several charming pieces of origami and save Professor Binns time in marking it. These four were very powerful, in their own ways, and each of them wished to create something that would last longer than themselves, so they built the school Hogwarts in a fashion they saw as appropriate together. Unfortunately, they had very different ideas as to what was the most important quality for their students. Griffindor favored valor and courage. Ravenclaw favored intelligence and wit. Hufflepuff valued persistence and hard work. And Slytherin was interested in students with ambition. These deep divisions threatened to tear apart the young Hogwarts, until Godric and Helga hit upon a compromise. Four houses were founded within the school, each catering to a certain variety of student. Some, including Salazar, were slightly resentful that their ideas were not deemed superior, but eventually he came around, and contributed to the school we have today."

It was a nice story, but from what Ed had read of Slytherin, he had a feeling that his 'slight' resentment wasn't slight at all, and 'contribution' was not entirely benevolent. But that was a question for another time.

"And what about the sorting?"

"Well some students are very obvious in their attributes, and others," he stared at Ed piercingly, "are more secretive and unknown. Their qualities are hidden within themselves, making it difficult to judge by outward acts alone. So, Godric again derived a solution. Taking the hat from his own head, he wove into it strong charms and enchantments, so that when it is placed upon the head of a prospective student, it is able to determine their heart's character, and place them into the appropriate house. This is, as we affectionately call it, the Sorting Hat."

"But it must be hundreds of years old! You still use it?"

"Of course. It may be frayed, patched, moldy, and once accidentally mistaken for a dusting rag by one of the house-elves, but it works perfectly well."

_As a dust rag?, _part of Edward wanted to say. What he said was "Uh-_huh_."

"I will send you your marks within the week, Edward, and we will see about getting _you _sorted as well.

Ed let out a sigh of relief. At least he was done with the tests.

Dumbledore pushed the huge stack of books toward him.

"Until then, I suggest you get started on these. You have a lot to do."

The blond alchemist struggled with the urge to transmute the books into a nice roaring fire.

"I see the passion in your eyes, Mr. Elric! I'll leave you to it."

Dumbledore left the room in a stirring of robes.

"Senile…old man…" Ed gritted out around his clenched teeth.

"OOLD MAAAN!"

…

"Did you grade them?"

"Yes."

"How did he perform?"

"Very well. His snuffbox is quite beautiful, you would have been proud."

"Hmm?"

"Here it is. Look for yourself, Minerva."

"…Is that silver chasing on the edges?"

"Yes, and the stones are genuine diamond and opal, which are difficult to produce by magic. His Forgetfulness Potion was effective even when vaporous, and a _Wingardium _charm performed by him turned a simple river stone into a ballistic missile."

"So he is powerful?"

"Extremely. Perhaps _too _powerful, in fact."

"Huh…" Her voice was strained.

"And the rest of the exams?"

"About as well as an above-average, bright student. Not extremely impressive until one considers the time frame that he has worked within."

"Well, any change in plan?"

"No, I will continue to test him, and watch over him. Eventually, when he is ready, he will tell us where, and who he really is. His delicate mental state is being belied by his strength. He's doing an excellent job of hiding the cracks, but they are there."

"Well, I hope that you know best."

"Hope is a precious thing, Minerva. I suggest that you save it for an occasion when the darkness is at your door, despair is clutching at your legs, and loss is threatening to become your closest companion. That Edward needs support now is not a question, but a certainty."

"…"

"Wait and see, then. That is all I ask."

"I trust you, Albus. Good evening, Headmaster."

"Deputy Headmistress."

The door to the office closed softly.

Dumbledore straightened, and walked to the windows. The paintings, normally filled with the benign faces of former headmasters, were all empty. Secrecy was paramount, and being impressions of men of power, they respected him and understood that enough to visit other artworks when the situation called for it.

Fawkes, sleeping on his perch, awoke, and cooed softly after him.

"…I need for you to believe, Minerva, even if I do not myself. I hope you will not think less of me."

He sniffed the air. It smelled of ozone.

Suddenly, his wand was in his hand.

"Who is there!" He demanded of the seemingly empty room.

Lavender light flared.

"What…are you?!"

"I'm…here…to…_kill_…you, Headmaster." The voice was so rough and torn, it was impossible to tell if it was a man or woman speaking.

Painfully bright flashes of light illuminated a twisted, disfigured form.

"Tom…sends…his…regards."

"Tom?!" The headmaster said in shock.

The very room around him seemed to seethe with menace, to grow terrible barbs and blades. Fawkes gave a terrible warlike cry, and took to the air.

"EXPECTO PATRONUS!"


	8. Chapter 8

Wow, now that was feedback! That last update was a bit cruel of me, I admit, but I think that it helps me evolve, if I try out things like that. (No, this ending will not be anywhere _near_ that bad.) I've learned quite a bit from it, so mission accomplished, I suppose. And what did I learn? Well, an example would be how I found that a cliffhanger ending will completely overshadow the rest of your writing, so it's an excellent device for some purposes, and not so good for others. But, if you want to hide a crucial bit of text around others, it's perfect for misdirection…

Also, I put the projected chapter list into my profile page. I didn't know what else to do with it, so there it is. I think it adds a little something to the story, including the past chapters, so I recommend reading it.

Chapter 8: For Never and Ever

Ed wasn't sure why he woke up.

He had been dozing just a second ago, snugly under the covers, his exhaustion insuring a deep, restorative night's rest, when suddenly, he was wide awake.

Was it a noise? No, that wasn't it. It had been a… a feeling, like the one you get when something that had been in the background of your attention, such as the noise of an air conditioner, suddenly ceased. It was a sharpening of awareness, a jarring into the present.

And he knew what was different, now. Ever since he had saved Maurice from the Death Eaters, his skin had been tingling slightly, like an electric charge had been building on it. It sometimes had fluctuated in intensity, on different days, but now it was just _gone_. What could it mean?

Whatever. This wasn't helping him get to sleep.

He rolled over, and soon, his eyes closed again.

…

There was a strange mood in the air that morning

"Hey, Tom, what's going on?"

Tom didn't even look up, he just kept on polishing the counter with his rag. It was a positively _ancient_ rag, and so all that Tom's effort accomplished was to stir the dirt into decorative and artful spirals, but where would a barman be, without polishing the counter two times a day? It was practically a law of the universe. 'Polish the bar, polish the glasses, use the same rag for both.'

Yech.

"It's Dumbledore. He didn't show up for the Wizengamot Conference yesterday. No one knows where he is."

"Wizengamot? You realize I've got no idea what that is, right?" Ed pondered for a moment, and then shrugged. " …So he missed a meeting, big deal. He seemed pretty flaky when I met 'em."

"Not _a _meeting, Ed, _the _meeting. It's _the_ event of the year. The Wizengamot are the highest court of magical law in Great Britain, and the Conference is when the court is ceremonially opened during the Feast of St. John, the solstice, at midnight. The Head Warlock gives a speech, and leads the rest of the members in a pledge to uphold justice. Ever since Dumbledore was promoted, he never missed a single one. Not even when You-Know-Who was runnin' wild."

"You-Know-Who… That's Voldemort, right? I read about him."

Tom looked stricken at Ed's mention of the dark wizard's name.

"Ed! Shush!"

"What? Guys like that just like to hide behind names to scare people. It makes them stronger if you give in. Trust me, experience talking."

"It _does _scare people, Ed. People are scared _right now_. First that Ministry witch goes missing, and then Dumbledore? We're lucky the Quidditch World Cup has everyone's attention, or we might already have a panic on our hands."

"Huh. Easily distracted, I guess."

Suddenly, the fireplace roared with emerald flames, and the great, hairy head of Hagrid the Gamekeeper emerged from a cloud of sooty smoke, looking a little green around the gills.

"Every time I have ter' use that blasted Floo powder, I think some part o' me stomach gets left behind." He growled under his breath, as he regained his sense of balance.

Ed, who normally would have been startled by the sudden appearance of a ten foot tall man with a frizzy beard that looked as if it housed some small family of rodent, merely looked up and grinned at him. He learned fast.

"Morning, Hagrid. I see you got back okay." he said cheerily.

"Mornin', Ed. Mornin', Tom." Hagrid called back. His glanced at Tom in a shifty sort of way. "Yeh read t'day's Prophet, Tom?"

"Yeah, I read it, Hagrid."

"And?"

"I only know what you do."

Hagrid stomped his foot in frustration. "Ah, damn! I was hopin' yeh might have gotten a tip or somethin' off of one 'o yer regulars. Nobody's talkin'!"

Tom's hands stopped genuflecting over the bar, a surefire sign of concern. In a civil voice, he asked Hagrid "Think it was- er- might have been…"?

"Oh, he's involved, that's fer sure."

Edward had had enough vagueness.

"Hagrid," Ed spoke up, "is anyone playing dumb at Hogwarts? Or, any theories?"

"Sure, plenty. No facts, though." Hagrid scratched his head. "Some people thing he's sequestered 'imself fer the Ministry, doin' some top secret mission. Some think he's finally gone mental. But most of 'em think foul play."

"Is he… dead?"

"Dead? _Dumbledore?_ Nahh." But Ed detected a note of worry in Hagrid's voice that hadn't been there a moment before.

The awkward silence that followed this was broken by the bell over the door ringing, as three of the day's first customers walked in and settled into a corner table. They talked and chatted brightly, but there was a strained feel to their conversation that only heightened the tension.

It seemed as if no one wanted to mention the six hundred pound gorilla in the room.

This, of course, aggravated the alchemist. But, then again, more and more things seemed to do that nowadays.

The barroom felt stuffy. Closed in.

"I'm going for a walk."

Tom tried to walk out after him. "Ed-"

Hagrid rested one enormous hand on Tom's shoulder, with exaggerated care. "-Let 'em go, Tom. Looks like he could use it."

He hardly made it three steps outside before he ran into someone. Literally.

"Oof!"

"Ah! Excuse me, young man."

Ed apologized, and got a good look at the older woman he had just collided with. She was tall, her manner strict and proper. She wore a stiff high-collared dress, the kind made popular by Victorian sensibilities, and her glasses were wire-rimmed. She had black hair, drawn back into a tight bun. Her posture seemed prim and poised, and the set of her eyes led Ed to believe that she was formidably intelligent. However, the dark circles underneath them undermined this impression..

The older woman had given him a once over as well, and Ed noticed a subtle shift in her manner once she was finished. There could be no doubt, she knew him.

"Edward Elric, correct? I am Deputy Headmistress McGonagall. Please, come back inside. I wish to speak with you."

It wasn't a request.

Ed's face held impatience in every line. He turned on his heel, and gave the door a tug that was much stronger than necessary, making it sweep open and impact against the outside wall with a '_Crack!'_.

Without even looking, Ed paced back into the room, to the surprise and bemusement of those he had just left. But, they were even more surprised when they saw the next patron. Eyebrow raised at the damage the heavy brass fixtures of the door had caused to the outside brick, Minerva followed him in.

"McGonagall!? What're yeh doin' here?" Hagrid spurted out around his mouthful of food, eyes agape.

"My business is with the young Edward, Hagrid. This is an official visit." The headmistress seemed slightly off-put, she had the look of a person with an unpleasant duty, who had nonetheless resolved herself to finish.

"Okay, what? What do you want with me?" Ed said, teeth clenched.

"Edward, I'm sure that you have heard that… that Dumbledore is currently not acting Headmaster at Hogwarts." McGonagall said carefully.

"I kind of figured that part out already, with him _disappearing _and all. Want to tell us something about it?"

She continued speaking, as if she had not heard him. "As you know, Albus has taken a personal interest in your case. I am here to continue his commitment."

" 'Has taken'? Present tense? Is he alive or not?!"

"I…cannot say."

Ed's eyes narrowed, and he turned away from the professor.

"Fine. Your requirement's done now, isn't it? You can go. I'll keep on studying like before, no need to worry. …Yeah, I'd hate to make anyone _worry_." Ed said caustically, as he walked back towards the stairs, and his room.

"Edward… we aren't done."

"Oh? I think we are."

"I have more questions, Ed."

"I bet you do. But until I get some answers, you won't be getting any from me. I want to know _what happened_. Dumbledore was the only person I've really talked to here. The only person who gave me good reason to trust him. I want to know where he is, or if he's… dead."

McGonagall sighed. "I cannot tell you that, Edward. But, you were the last person to speak with him outside of Hogwarts staff. You should know that you could end up in the custody of the Ministry if you are suspected of involvement. Albus had to do quite a bit of bargaining to arrange your special status, Mr. Elric, and with him not currently… well, without his advocacy, things could get leery for you if you choose not to cooperate."

"Really? Fine. I can take it. But, I'm betting," Ed said, an unfriendly sly smile spreading across his lips, "that you _can't. _Someone as straight-laced as you seem to be has no place threatening people, but you are anyway, which means…you're desperate. You help me, I'll help you, how about that?" Ed's eyes twinkled with victory.

McGonagall looked discomfited by this sudden reversal. "I will not concede any-"

"That's alright, I don't need you to tell me anything. I'm guessing there was somewhere he was last seen, right? Somewhere that he vanished from? Take me there, at least. Then, I'll answer questions, if I can." There was a ring of truth in his words.

McGonagall looked conflicted. She had been asked to look after Edward, and with all the many mysteries surrounding him, it was nearly impossible to do. She needed those answers, why Dumbledore had thought that he was so important. But to show him the head office… it was a bit much. Did this child actually believe he might glean some information from there that the head Aurors had missed? They had just finished their investigation, and were, for lack of a better word, baffled. …But what could it hurt? She really did need to know who Edward was, why he was such a powerful wizard, and if the scrutiny of the room was finished, it wasn't as if he would be disturbing evidence.

"Very well, then, Edward. I will allow you to see the Headmaster's Office. He had a great deal of confidence in you, which is a sovereign mark towards your character, and is why I am allowing you to see it. Just remember, you must not speak a word of this to _anyone_. Especially not Rita Skeeter."

"What's a 'Rita Skeeter'?"

"…Nevermind. The temporary Apparation window for the Ministry wizards has been closed, so we will be traveling by Floo Network. Have you eaten yet?"

"No, not yet."

"Good."

"Wait, why is that good?"

Three minutes later, Ed found out why.

…

Traveling by Floo powder, as it turns out, is a rather unique experience. It started out simply enough. McGonagall directed him into the fireplace, then stood by him, and gripped his hand tightly. In retrospect, Ed realized that that was the point when he should have figured out that he wouldn't like what came next. Then, with her free hand, she reached into an almost unnoticeable small pocket on the side of her dress, and threw a handful of the green dust it contained into the air, while saying in a clear, loud voice, "GRIFFINDOR COMMON ROOM!"

Then, there was this sudden whoosh of air, green flames curled around them, and a sudden force, like a cable tied around his spine, _yanked him straight up_. Except it wasn't up anymore, Ed didn't even have the slightest idea what way _was_ up. Strange, weird colors and lights flickered past him, for the parts that his eyes were open for, and he was having trouble breathing, with good reason. It was like traveling down a bobsled run, but one built by a man who only had a good grasp of organ-crushing turns and nothing else. McGonagall's hand was the only thing keeping him from getting thrown away, and lost in that labyrinth.

And then suddenly, with a rushing noise around his ears, he found himself standing in a large, comfortable room. There were several large, cushy easy chairs positioned around tables and lamps, and facing the fireplace, the ceiling was high and airy, and the windows, though thin, let in plenty of light. The heavy white masonry of the walls seemed to indicate that they were in an old building, or castle of some kind. And, on a wall, was a huge hanging tapestry of a lion recoiled on it's hind legs, surrounded by embroidery of red and gold. The colors were repeated around the room, in the upholstery and carpets, and in fabric streamers strung between rafters. At the very end of the room were two spiral staircases. Ed could only guess at where they lead. With the craziness he had seen, one of them might very well lead to the middle of the bloody Amazon.

"So," said Ed, once he felt that his liver and spleen were in about the right places again, "Is this the house Godric founded?"

"Yes, Ed, it is. I happen to be the Faculty Head of Gryffindor House. You might very well end up here yourself, if you are sorted into it."

McGonagall straightened up, and dusted some ashes from the hem of her dress.

"I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to wait here for a short time, Edward. I'm going to go up to the Head Office, and confirm that the investigators have left. Make yourself comfortable while I'm gone."

She strolled from the room with a prim businesslike air, disappeared down the doorway in the corner, and left.

Ed settled, or rather, sank down into a chair, and put his feet up. He rested comfortably like this for several long minutes.

He nearly started to doze off, but a sudden belching of flame from the great old hearth woke him up, along with the sounds of one, two, _three _people screaming at the top of their lungs. Three squirming, sooty figures rolled out of the fireplace into a heap at Ed's feet. Ed, for his part, was standing on his chair, arms raised in almost comic alarm.

"RON! _Geroff_, and be bloody _quiet!_" came a retort from the one at the bottom of the pile, to another who was on top, and still yelling.

"It's not my fault! I _told _you you had to speak clearly, and what did you do? You _stuttered_! We probably got the bloody _grand tour _of half of England! I thought I was going to end up speared on a stupid weather vane or something!"

"Well, it doesn't matter, does it?" scolded the third, her voice obviously female, but slightly…irritating. "We're here, aren't we? So, let's find out what we came here for!"

"Um…"

All three of the figures' heads turned up to the source of the noise.

Ed, who was coming up short (no pun, no pun!) on anything else to say, gave them a little wave.

"Er… hi."

All three of their jaws dropped in perfect synchronization.

…

"I'm Harry, this is Ron, and Hermione." Said the boy had been on the bottom of the pile. Once he dusted off the ashes, Ed learned that he had black hair that stuck out in odd places, glasses, and a strange, jagged scar on his forehead.

"I'm Ed. Nice to meet you. What the hell are you doing here, by the way?"

"We were going to ask you the same thing." said the one called Ron, a redhead with a sprinkling of freckles across his face. "We figured the Gryffindor commons was empty, what with this being the middle of the summer, and all."

Hermione, the vaguely irritating girl with bushy brown locks, and largish front teeth, gave him a close look. "Hang on a second. I don't think I've ever seen you before. Are you a student here?"

"Um, well… Sort of. I'll be transferring here this fall."

"An exchange student? I don't think we've ever had one of those before…"

"Oh, lay off him, Herm." said Harry. "Listen, I know how this must look. But we're not thieves or anything. We're students, and we're only here because we're worried about Dumbledore."

"We just wanted to see what we could find. No _way_ we're just gonna sit back and not do anything like a bunch of gits."

Ed smiled. "Yeah, I gotcha. That's why I'm here, too." For some reason, Ed had the gut impression that he could trust these guys. And, what's more, he _liked _them.

"You _are!?_" exclaimed a surprised Ron.

"Yeah. I managed to talk McGonagall into letting me take a look at his office. That's where he disappeared."

"And just how did you manage that?" accused Hermione

A grin formed on Harry's face. "That's perfect, Ed. Can we follow you in?"

"I've got no problems with that. But, McGonagall probably will. Can you sneak in without being seen?"

Harry and Ron's grins grew even wider. "That's not a problem."

Ed turned and faced Hermione, "You're Hermione? Hagrid mentioned you a few days ago. He said you were a genius."

Hermione blushed, and stammered "Well, it's, that is to say, I have aptitudes in certain, er, well, Hagrid… likes to exaggerate."

"Uh-huh. So, that's a yes?"

While Ed shared small talk with Hermione about the proper wand gestures to use a _Wingardium _charm, (his test performance obviously still on his mind), Harry and Ron shared a few furtive words.

"Do you think we can trust him?" Ron whispered to Harry.

"I…think so."

"But he's a new face, and, well, we don't know anything about him!"

"I know. But, I feel like I can. Besides, why else would he let us follow him up to the Dumbledore's office?"

"I guess you're right."

Their separate conversations were broken up by the sounds of approaching footsteps.

"Quick, hide!" Ed ordered. He watched as, instead of ducking behind chairs or tables, they suddenly ran toward each other, and stood together very closely in the middle of the room.

"_No, not together! Hide!_" he hissed, gesturing furiously.

There was a noise of hinges, and the Deputy Headmistress called out to Ed.

"Edward?"

All was lost. Ed whirled around and faced forward, putting on his most innocent face, in the mad hope that she wouldn't think that he had anything to do with the three idiots standing behind him.

She emerged from inside the entrance. "Edward? We can go now." She stated genially, her calm face showing no indication that there was anything wrong with this picture.

She turned and walked away. "Hurry, Ed."

Someone tapped his shoulder. He whirled around, and came face to face with…no-one.

"It's ok, Ed." came a voice at his ear, nearly making him jump out of his shoes.

"It's an Invisibility Cloak. We're all under it. You just hurry up, an' open the doors a little wider than normal, and Bob's your uncle."

"Well, sure. Invisibility cloaks…why not?" Said Ed, under his breath. "Ok, then, on your marks…"

…

The professor led him up staircases, down others, and sometimes, upside down them as well. He walked down long hallways with coats of arms on the walls, lined with suits of armor, and strange paintings whose eyes not only followed him, their whole heads did too. Columns of marble, scattered busts and statues, made the halls seem like the voluminous rooms of a mad collector more than an institution of learning. He certainly hoped that those three were keeping up, because there was no way in hell he'd be able to retrace his steps.

They finally arrived at a large and imposing gargoyle, whose sheer bulk seemed to epitomize the phrase 'Immovable'. McGonagall gave it a cursory look, and said calmly, "Fizzing Whizbees."

The gargoyle got up, and, very carefully, moved to the side. The wall behind it split in two, revealing yet another spiral flight of steps.

They climbed up, and Ed thought he heard someone's foot catch on a step, and then a muffled swear.

"Hmm?" Said McGonagall, not turning around.

"What? Oh, nothing. Excuse me." Ed covered up.

"Well, here we are, Ed. It's a mess in there, I have to say. We're not certain what happened. Anything you can add might be helpful."

Ed walked through the door, and into a nightmare.

…

The walls were colored in a tranquil shade, the carpet and desk of a luxurious quality. Intricate silver instruments lined the walls, instruments that seemed like they once moved, but now were still. There was an empty perch behind the desk. But everything else...

The round walls were colored a tranquil shade, but were rippled and distorted, the material _pulled _out into twisted spikes and blades. Two of the windows were blown out, one of which still held jagged and sharp glass. And, maybe the most terrible thing, a stain, a puddle of red on the luxurious carpet.

It was so quiet in there. So terribly quiet. Even McGonagall seemed mollified into silence.

But Ed's silence was of a different kind. His was filled with shudders and gasps. Because Ed knew what made the sharpened spears and swords out of the walls. Ed knew what had blown out those windows. And most of all, Ed knew what made that red patch on the carpet.

It was hardly a word, more like a breath.

"_Alchemy_…"


	9. Chapter 9

Here I am

_Here I am! Despite document loss, despite massive operating system failure, the update is here! I know that most of you out there are going to be too busy with reading the real thing to be paying attention to my little story (as it definitely should be), but still, thank you for reading. Oh, and please review! Reviews warm my soul!_

_Harry Potter and all other associated intellectual property belong to J.K. Rowling, Fullmetal Alchemist belongs to Square-Enix._

Chapter 9: Go

_Three Days Earlier..._

Night in London. Quiet, for a certain value of quiet. Dark, for a certain value of dark. Cities, after all, are never truly either. The clouds are turned orange by the reflected light of streetlamps, and the air rings with sirens, their petulant calls warped and distorted by the echoes of walls surrounding them. Humans are adaptable, however, and the one sleeping in his second-hand room, in the modest two-story with the guillotine-straight lawn edgings and the immaculately clean sidewalk, hardly noticed the noise anymore.

He was dreaming, dreaming a lovely dream where he was flitting through the air, as gracefully as a starling, far above the Earth. Although this dream might have been considered slightly odd by an outside observer, it wasn't because of the flying. At least, not precisely. Flying dreams are fairly common, after all. The unusual part wasn't that he was _flying,_ per se, but that he was flying on a _broomstick_, chasing down hovering balls of chocolate, which would shrewdly try to evade him by growing wings and sprinting away in a burst of brown feathers.

You see, this boy was a wizard, and these were wizard dreams, or at least what a wizard dreams of when he is starving.

The boy's name was Harry Potter.

This summer had been in equal measures the best and worst of Harry Potter's life. It had been the worst, because he had recently had to do everything in his power to not die of hunger. This was thanks to his abusive and obese cousin Dudley, who, thanks to a very stiffly worded, and, Harry thought, slightly _exultant _letter from the school nurse of Smeltings, the secondary school he attended for the other nine months of the calendar, was now on a diet. She had had it presented _officially_, with a messenger in the front door, notarized, insured, stamped and signed, to prevent Dudley from 'losing' it on the way home, as he generally did every year. It was thick and impressive, stuffed with pages of witnessed affidavits and notes, photocopied sheets of selected sections of county codes, and a small rolled up piece of blue paper. Taken as a whole, it stated, in terms as irrefutable as the Voice of God, that Dudley was too fat, too rotund, too downright _massive _to be allowed to attend school.

It was all there in black and white. The authorized school suppliers of uniforms stated that designing clothes for Dudley had long stopped being the work of tailors, and started being for _engineers_. (There were several lines referencing the insufficient tensile strength of conventional cotton fibers.) The gym instructor, normally an advocate for violent and sadistic boys, admitted his surprise that when Dudley was chasing a smaller student and attempted to take a turn, how he didn't just start rolling instead. And then there was the delightful matter of the civic official. He, by means of diagram, school blueprint, and municipal law, showed how Dudley's mere _presence _in the dubiously hallowed chambers of learning was illegal. It seemed that his girth had grown so great, that just by being in the hallways, he qualified as a Unwieldy Obstruction, and was thereby in violation of the fire code.

And so, diet time it was in the Dursley household, a special new layer of hell. The primary argument behind all of them dieting, as told by Aunt Petunia, was to grant " 'Ickle Duddykins" moral support. The fact that Dudley had about as many morals as a moray eel has secret admirers was ostensibly ignored. The _real_ reason was that, if Dudley had to suffer, at least Harry could make him feel better by suffering more.

Back when their meals were nothing but starch, grease, protein, and maybe a vitamin, crying because it was all alone, in portions large enough to give a buffalo heartburn, Harry had had a hard enough time. Even then, he had to fight to keep the paltry scraps the Dursleys deigned him to have out of the chubby grasping fingers of Dudley. Now, that he was eating carrots and salads, with Dudley stealing every morsel, he didn't stand a chance of getting enough food to get by. He had sent out to his friends, Hagrid, Ron, Hermoine, and even Sirius, his erstwhile estranged fugitive godfather, a desperate petition that had been answered in excellent style. A veritable parade of owls dropped off care packages in the dead of night, containing such wonders as pumpkin pasties, chocolate frogs, and (from Hagrid), an untouched box of homemade rock cakes, a strange confection that, Harry suspected, might contain _actual _rocks.

In fact, the reason that this summer would qualify as the best in his life were these same communiqués with the outside wizarding world. While he and his closest confidants knew otherwise, Sirius Black was considered by all to be an extremely dangerous murderer who had, in cold blood, killed Peter Pettigrew, been instrumental in the deaths of Harry's parents, and executed over a dozen muggles unlucky enough to be standing in his way, without a second's hesitation. An escapee from Azkaban, the hellish fortress-prison, a magical criminal with no qualms about breaching the ironclad rules of wizarding secrecy, and a heartless killer, he was something right out of the Dursleys' worst nightmares.

It was all bollocks, of course, but it was bollocks that Harry had gleefully turned to his advantage. Whenever things got too unbearable, too awful, too horrible and unceasing, all he had to say was one little sentence:

"Oh, by the way, I'm writing a letter to my godfather tonight."

It was practically magic. It certainly _worked _like magic, because once he said it, Uncle Vernon's purplish face drained of all color like a lanced boil, Aunt Petunia's hands ceased their endless scrubbing, and all of Dudley's many chins wobbled to a stop. And, with all the care of soldiers who have realized they just walked into a minefield, they would carefully, slowly withdraw. It was a moment of glorious revenge.

Harry was careful to be sparing in its application, to save its influence for moments when it was really needed, but when he did use it, it was rapturous. Finally, something of a balance of powers had been reached.

If he was just a bit more cynical, he might have already realized it wasn't going to last.

But, he wasn't, and so he was utterly unprepared when a red-hot, burning pain struck his forehead, launching him out of his pleasant dreams, filling his nose with the smell of charred flesh, and blinding his eyes with red agony.

If you have ever burned yourself, think of that moment now. Maybe you touched the hot metal of a sparkler after it had smoldered out. Maybe your hand grazed the inside of an oven while taking out food. Maybe your bare ankle tapped a motorcycle's muffler. It doesn't matter how it happened, just remember how it _felt. _Remember how your hand flew away faster than you can ever remember moving before? Remember how, for just that one second, it overwhelmed everything else in your body and mind? Remember how the pain lasted and lasted, how it brought tears to your eyes? Hang on to that, and you can begin to appreciate Harry's torment. You can _understand _it.

There was no metal to pull away from. No hot dish to drop. He couldn't get away, because the source was tattooed into his very skin. It was that first pain of a burn, stretched _on_ and _on_ and _on_, a _gouging_, _scouring_, _searing_ _torch_ that incinerated all proper behavior, all restraint. He flailed like an epileptic in a grand-mal seizure. He shattered the small amount of tranquility the night possessed with screams.

Something strange was happening. Although Harry was aware of his body, spasming and shouting, a strange feeling of…_separate-ness _came over him. His arms and hands seemed further away, like everything that he knew that made up Harry, the kid with wild black hair and knobbly knees, was distancing itself from the real Harry, the observer, on the inside. And his eyes weren't his own eyes anymore, because for some reason he felt no more need to blink. They didn't show his bedroom ceiling, either. Instead, he was in a large dark room, but he was having difficulty telling for sure, because it wasn't like watching a TV, where he could shift his focus anywhere on the screen he wished. These eyes, because they certainly weren't his, moved and looked where they would, and he was hardwired in for the ride. He was, as it were, just a passenger. It was very disconcerting.

But not nearly as disconcerting as what he was looking at.

It was a horrible, wretched thing, and whether or not it was human was open to serious debate. Scarred and wretched, its gender, as well as its identity, was a mystery. It had no hair, and a painful-looking dark red crust covered its entire body. It stank of _wrongness_.

It spoke with a voice like a rasp. "Please?" It was begging, pitifully. Pinkish tears gathered in bloodshot blue-gray eyes.

A voice that seemed to come from the inside of Harry's head said, in an oiled, breathy way:

"_No. No more…until you do…as ordered._"

Suddenly, his head jerked around rapidly, his field of sight contracted. Harry realized that the loss of it meant that his host had narrowed his eyes in suspicion, and fear poured cold water down his back. Somehow he knew, whoever he had been piggybacking on _knew he was there_. Something rammed him in the chest, hard, and flung him back. The strange vision wavered and fluttered.

And then it was gone.

Harry blinked away the water in his eyes. He waited.

Minutes passed. Nothing happened.

Harry lay in his sweat-soaked sheets, breathing slowly and carefully, analyzing what had just happened to him, trying to determine what it could mean.

He knew that the ramifications of this event could be dire, very dire indeed. Because the source of his pain had been his curse-scar, and his scar had been given to him by…

Voldemort.

But what did it mean? Was he getting some kind of psychic feedback from him? A kind of… empathic link that …transmitted feelings and other things?

…Had he really been inside the Dark Lord's skull? And that abomination…what was that thing?

He would have to tell someone, but _who_? Dumbledore was the obvious choice, but what if it was nothing? The vision itself was suspect, Harry himself was unsure whether it had been legitimate, or if it was something his head had made up just to get his mind off the pain. What he needed, Harry decided, was some kind of proving ground, or a sounding-board, to determine whether or not this was Dumbledore-worthy. His time was a precious resource, he knew, and Harry, who respected him immensely, was loath to waste it. What if curse scars hurt and did other stuff like this normally? After all, there was no real way to be sure. He was, as far as anyone knew, the only one to survive the dread Avada Kedavra, so there was a definite lack of other cases to compare it to.

The answer hit him between the eyes. Of course! Sirius! It was so obvious, he didn't know why he hadn't thought of it sooner. Sirius was safe to ask, and he had the advantage of having been on the other side of the law for so long that he might know a thing or two about the nastier hexes.

In a hurry, he jumped from his bed, and jotted down a quick letter on the nightstand on a piece of scrap parchment.

_Sirius,_

_Something happened tonight. I need to talk to you first chance you get. Stay safe._

_Harry._

Sirius would know what to do. He'd just have to content himself with that. Harry crept out of the covers quietly. There was no telling how many people he had woken in his outburst, but both Vernon and Dudley usually snored like a Canadian logging camp at noon, and he reasoned that, if their own cacophonous snorts, squeaks, and rumblings did not wake them, nothing short of a bomb would. He roused Hedwig, who opened her eyes lazily, clicked her beak in a small show of acknowledgement, and deigned to stand still while he attached the note to her leg. With a slow, lofty flap of her wings, she coasted out the window, and cleared the house next door with ease.

Not knowing what else to do, he went back to bed.

-O-

The next day was uneventful in the worst possible way. He knew it was illogical to hope for a reply from Sirius so early, but, when he woke to see Hedwig perched in her cage, leg bare, his heart sank.

He spent the day beating out the rugs of his next door neighbor, Ms. Paisley-Stutley, a woman whose looks gave the impression of her never possibly having been young, without drastically rethinking the modern conception of time. Uncle Vernon told him that one of his duties as a young man was to do work for the elderly without pay and without expecting reward, and had volunteered him to improve his character.

The rugs in question were impossibly long and bulky affairs that Harry had to roll up, and drag out by hand, as Ms. Paisley-Stutley screeched out shrill commands to "Watch your feet!" or "Mind that vase, you little punk!". The inside of her house was crowded with thousands of glass and porcelain statuettes, sculptures, doo-dads, and ornaments, all extremely fragile, and all positioned in such a way as to be an impediment in the transport of the very cumbersome load. After pointing this out very politely to the venerable crone, (Harry was sure that the word was invented _precisely _for ladies like Ms. Paisley-Stutley,), and suggesting that they be moved out of the way, she puffed up her tiny chest in outrage, and beset poor Harry with such a razored tongue-lashing about his impudence in trying to change the decor of _her _home, he walked away grateful that he still had ears on. So, tiptoeing, hardly daring to breathe too deeply, he dragged out the carpet, inch by agonizing inch, through rooms booby-trapped with cross-eyed ceramic kittens, uninspiring glass angel figurines, and 'hand-painted' music boxes painted by, apparently, someone with no hands. It was slow, arduous work, which had to be executed with the precision of a surgeon.

Getting them out the door had been a miracle unto itself. Harry suspected that his own, special 'gift' might have played a role in that, because the carpets seemed to shrink by _just enough_ to squeeze them over the threshold. There was nothing to drape them over, but Harry found that he could unroll them, lift them up, sections at a time, by standing underneath them and then locking the elbow of the arm holding it over his head, while thrashing the underside of the rug with the beating rod held in the other. Clouds of dust gusted out, and while his glasses provided some protection, he sneezed violently, and his eyes and nose watered. After just a few hours of this, he was dead tired, and could barely move his limbs.

As he left the house, he saw Uncle Vernon, out of the corner of his eye, accepting a twenty-pound note from Paisey-Stutley's withered fingers, and sticking it in the pocket of his trousers with a grin. Harry felt the hate well up in him like an angry boiling cauldron. He clenched his hands so hard they went bone-white.

Dinner was forgettable iceberg lettuce with a side of squash, and he ate it quickly, not out of hunger, though he was ravenous, but out of a desire to leave the present company. Without pausing a second after taking away his plate, he ran up the stairs, and gorged himself on contraband food. Hedwig ruffled her feathers at this display of poor manners, but Harry didn't care. He went to sleep quickly.

He woke up sometime after two in the morning. The reason was simple enough: something had just broken his window.

He heard voices coming from outside:

"I said throw a pebble! A _pebble_! Not a bloody _ROCK_, you _GIT! Now _look what you've done!"

"Oi, rock, pebble, what's the difference?"

"What's the difference?! Oh, I don't know, why don't _you_ look at the damn _window_, and tell_ me _what the bloody difference is?

They, for some reason, were very familiar.

"_No!_" thought Harry, a crazy grin spreading across his face,

"_Not Ron and Fred!"_

A high pitched and more petulant voice rose above the two already arguing. "Oh, _cut it out! _Do you want to make even more noise?! Try and think about things for once!"

Harry's grin grew even wider. "_Hermione too! _What are they doing here?!"

Breathlessly, he jumped from his bed and, throwing on his shoes to mind the glass on the floor, he stood in front of the window and waved frantically.

Ron and Fred (If it was Fred…) seemed to have gotten locked into an inevitable scuffle, and Hermione was forced to stand by the wayside and scowl ineffectually at the two brawling siblings. Parked next to a curb was an idling Knight Bus, a magical conveyance which catered to travelers who, for one reason or another, preferred not to Apparate or fly. Harry was friends with one of the drivers, a man called Stan Shunpike. This was probably how Ron and Fred (or was it George?) managed to reach both Hermione and him without either the Weasley flying car (which was confiscated), Floo powder ( as muggle fireplaces are unlisted), Apparating (none of them knew how), or brooms (just a very bad idea). Only a foolhardy _idiot _would use a broom in downtown London, Harry thought to himself. No one was _that_ reckless.

-O-

Halfway across the city, a young alchemist sneezed himself awake, then rolled back over.

-O-

Technically, he knew, the Knight Bus was only supposed to be used for emergencies, but both of the Weasley twins had a special kind of genius when it came to thinking up excuses and explanations, so they probably had whipped up some extra-spicy one that completely flummoxed the driver into driving halfway around the country.

Ron was the first to notice Harry, mainly because George (or was it Fred?) had him in a headlock that pointed his eyes in vaguely the right direction.

" 'Ey, Ook! It's _Arrgh _'Arry! _Gack!" _Ron got out around Fred/George's stern pressure on his esophagus.

"Oh, Harry!" called out a breathless Hermione, "We're so glad you're here! Something's happened!"

Harry's face fell. "What?" His voice went cold. "What's happened?"

-O-

"What do you mean, "Dumbledore's gone" ? " Harry demanded, no more laughter in his eyes.

Hermione shifted her bottom uncomfortably, and the Weasley boys' eyes were suddenly looking everywhere but his face.

They were on board the Knight Bus, nicely appointed with curtained windows and, instead of seats, large beds with shining brass bedsteads and comfortable-looking heaps of blankets. However, though they were currently sitting on them, no one had any illusions about going to sleep.

Harry had managed to grab his Hogwarts trunk on the way out, along with Hedwig in her cage, but both were currently safely stored away in back, and so, still dressed in his nightclothes, he stared at his friends, waiting for one of them to answer his question.

"Dad told us." Said Ron miserably, after a long couple of minutes. "He's friends with Amelia Bones, one of the Justices of the Wizengamot. Normally, after every opening night, there's a really big party, and Dad, he always said that Amelia was usually a stick in the mud except when she had a few drinks in her, and then she'd raise hell, so he'd go every year to see it. …And, represent the Ministry, too. But when he got to the bar where the party was supposed to be, everyone was just standing around muttering to each other, and when he asked what happened Mrs. Bones told him that Dumbledore never showed up!"

"He never misses it. Ever." Said Fred fervently. (And it was Fred, because Harry could recognize the faint scar he had gotten in Quidditch when a rogue Bludger boxed his ear.)

"So, something very bad is happening. And I'm tired of waiting around and seeing the Ministry foul everything up." Said Ron, the quaver completely gone from his tone. "I want to see for myself, and find out what's going on!"

"But, I can't do it without you guys." Ron looked at them hopefully. "Hermione already agreed. Help me out, all right?"

Harry had already made up his mind the second that he heard.

"Of course I'll help, Ron."

Ron's face glowed with relief.

"So, what's the plan?"

His face went blank. "Er. Wellll…"

Hermione filled in for Ron. "We have one, but you aren't going to like it, Harry."

"Try me."

She told him. He didn't like it.

-O-

"It's very simple!"

"It's also very bloody humiliating! And it won't even work!"

"_Of_ _course_ it will!"

"-But I _hate _dealing with the press! And I don't like him much either, so kissing his behind just for the sake of a publicity stunt-"

"-_And _for Dumbledore! Haven't you been listening? Besides, the note's already been sent!"

"_What?! _But, but he knows my handwriting!"

"Oh, he does _not_! Besides, we had Fred write it, and he's almost _too _good at forging documents… Anyway, he'll never tell the difference, and this is the only way we can make it into Hogwarts over the summer! And you're not making this any easier, so get out of here!"

Hermione looked up from her meticulous charming work laid out on the dining table, and glared pointedly at Harry. He had gotten more and more unsure of their strategy in the passing hours, and the fact that everyone seemed to be running on nerves wasn't helping anything.

After they had made it back to the Burrow, the Weasley family home, Ron went to gather supplies from their father's workshop, Hermione had laid out several Charms textbooks open at key chapters at various locations in the family room, and Fred had run up the stairs to his room with an alarming amount of noise.

Harry gave a significant look at Ron, who, understanding Harry's concern, said "It's alright, Harry. My dad went somewhere once he heard about Dumbledore, and said he'd be gone a day or so, and with my brothers and all, my mum would've never gotten any rest in this house if she didn't sleep like a log."

It was very fortunate that that was true, because this was sure to be considered nothing less than Grand Theft Wizardry, and for even considering it, Ron would probably be grounded for the rest of his natural life.

Fred, came down the stairs with all the noise of a clumsy elephant, with his equally racocious twin George, holding three large wineskins filled with something that sloshed viscously, and a box containing hundreds of what looked to be very bizarre fireworks.

"Hey," said Harry, picking up one that looked something like a very colorful Gatling gun barrel with helicopter blades and a fuse, "What's this lot?"

"Oh, you know," said Fred easily, "just a few products of our misspent youth." He grinned.

"These are your distraction, Harry." Said George, with confidence. "They'll light up the streets for miles, _at least_."

"Will they work?" he said skeptically. "I mean, without blowing everything up?"

"Absolutely." answered Fred.

"Definitely." replied George.

"Well, probably." He conceded.

"50/50, at least."

"Pretty sure-"

"-Okay! I get it!" said Harry, exasperated at the twins' tag-team approach to conversation.

He put down the little, yet, (knowing Fred and George), undoubtedly _unbelievably dangerous_ party favor, and picked up one of the wineskins.

"I don't know how you managed to make so much of this stuff. It's really difficult to do it correctly." Harry mused, obviously impressed.

"Oh please. We've done so many detentions in the Dungeons we've nicked enough stuff to make our own Potions cupboard." George said dismissively. "I don't know why Snape never noticed, he probably just figured it was Peeves filching bottles to throw at first-years."

"And anyway, we thought it was a good idea to have it around. It's dead useful, and you can sell it in Knockturn Alley for loads of _mmf!_" George's hand appeared from nowhere and clapped itself over Fred's mouth.

Filing that little bit of information under 'useful to know' in his head, Harry diverted his attention again to the rather complex sewing and seamstressing operation being undertaken in the next room. Ginny, Ron's younger sister, had insisted on helping, and it turned out that she was a very deft hand with a needle. It seems that she was tailoring a suit on an old and battered clothes horse. It was pinstriped, until you looked closely and saw that they were just lines of carefully penned white ink. There were a pair of glossy purple boots, but similarly, it was easy to see that they were just painted that color. The scarlet tie was genuine, but the hat… the hat was just an atrocity.

"_Lime green?_" said Harry.

"Hey!," said Ginny defensively, "I did the best I could! And anyway, it's what he always wears!" It was a poorly kept secret that Ginny idolized him, and that it had gotten her into more than her share of trouble in the past.

But now, looking at the job she had done, (and it was very good,) he was coming to appreciate her other qualities as well. There was definitely more to her than just being Ron's sister, that was for sure…

"Hey, what's all this then? Pretty good, for a little'un." Ron called out as he walked in, grinning from ear to ear.

Ginny stuck out her tongue at him, favored Harry with a brilliant smile, and flounced away into the kitchen.

"Pretty good, eh, Harry?" Ron said, turning his attention to his best mate.

"Hmm?" said Harry, shaking himself out of wherever his thoughts had wandered. "Oh, hey Ron. Yeah, it is. It won't hold up to a really detailed inspection, but it'll have to do."

"A pity about the suit, though. Oh well. Mum says that he hasn't been able to fit into that since the wedding anyway."

"You got what you needed, Ron?"

"Yeah. Dad keeps his hairbrush by the sink."

"You're _sure_ you got the right-"

"Yes I am!

"-because the last time we made a mistake with this-"

"I'm _sure, _all right!"

"Ha! I did it!" a triumphant Hermione called out from two rooms away.

"You see, it was very complex," explained Hermione once Harry and Ron reached her. She was holding up a ring made in the recently popular style of three interwoven loose bands. "But I managed to _Enterophy_ an Engorgement Charm on this ring, and key it to a code phrase. Watch!"

They looked obediently at the tiny piece of jewelry.

"My Honor!" Hermione said, in a loud bold voice. The interlocking bands expanded outward very slightly, and pinched together tightly.

"It took you three hours to do _that?_" said Ron, disappointed.

"Well, I couldn't just have it grow tiny hands and start plucking, could I?" retorted Hermoine. "This way, it's inconspicuous, and in case you forgot, that's the whole idea! And getting them to grow isn't what took so long, it was getting them to grow just the right amount! We don't want a bunch of metal hula-hoops suddenly appearing in Harry's hand, do we? And, I had to do some heavy work on that _Inspanded_ backpack, too, so I don't want to hear you complaining"

Ron, seeming somewhat mollified, changed the subject. "Are you sure we should be trying this so soon? I mean, what if-"

"Now or never, Ron. The quicker we are, the more likely it will be that we can find out some real information. And, everyone will more likely be disorganized enough for this to have a chance." said Harry, his resolve coalescing itself out of thin air. "We have to do this now."

"Oh, all right." Ron said, admitting defeat. He took another look at the pinstriped suit.

"This is probably the stupidest thing we've ever done, you know." He said off-handedly.

"Okay. Maybe fourth-stupid."

-O-

Today was not a good day (and it was daytime only technically) for Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic. Dumbledore was gone, people were a panic, it was very early, and he couldn't seem to find a cup of coffee big enough.

People were actually looking to him for answers! _Him! _It was all so terribly unfair, and that this should happen now! He was already so busy with other things, didn't they know that!?

Phones were ringing off the hook. Owls kept on pouring mail onto his desk, and everyone seemed to be running around like chickens who'd had their heads taken off. It was so unfair!

What he needed was some way of calming everyone down, of showing them things were under control. (Not that they actually _were, _but…) He needed a nice, big, public show of confidence, to remind people that _he _was the Minister of Magic, not Dumbledore! That they were all _perfectly_ safe!

Another owl swooped in, having successfully penetrated the impromptu barricade Fudge had tried to make using his curtains and strips of _Spellotape_. It deposited yet another letter on his desk.

He almost swept it into a heap with the others, but then he saw who it was from. Hurriedly, he opened it, considering its contents of significantly greater importance.

He read it, and almost burst into tears of joy. This is what he was looking for! How kind, how considerate, how noble! Oh, yes, that lad was going places, he was sure!

It said:

_Dear Minister Fudge,_

_I heard about the recent crisis from my friend Ron. I think now more than ever it is my duty to show my full support for the office you hold, and give the world a chance to appreciate your excellent leadership. _(Fudge noted that the penmanship degraded somewhat here, and decided that the writer must have been in the grips of some powerful emotion. He was quite right: Fred had been laughing so hard he fell off his chair.) _I know that this might not mean much to a man of your esteemed position, but I seem to have some amount of celebrity, which might be able to help. Please call a press conference tomorrow, so that I can officially endorse you._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter._

-O-

The next day seemed to come out of nowhere. Beset with trepidation and fueled by nervous energy, they called the Knight Bus once again, and whisked themselves to Diagon Alley. When they saw the scaffolding hastily being erected in front of the Ministry Building, complete with Union-Jack bunting and banners, everyone except Harry broke out into a watermelon grin. Ron, wearing a curiously baggy suit, but not the one they spent the night working on, was the first to speak.

"I don't believe it."

Ron shifted his glance from the podium and the already gathering crowd to his friend, who was moving about nervously, beset with pre-stage fright.

"The prat is actually _buying it_. We're in already!"

"There isn't another way, is there?" asked Harry with a mad hope, his confidence shaken because of how close they were to crunch time.

"For the last time, Harry, NO!", came Hermione's voice from the air next to Ron. "How do you think _I _feel about it!? Did you even think about what I'm going to have to do? ...These clothes are very uncomfortable." She grumbled, as an afterthought

"I'm trying not to think about what you have to do!" Harry said, took a breath, and continued. "We could just use the Invisibility Cloak and-"

"_NO! _It won't work, Harry! There's barely enough room for me to comfortably fit in it! All three of us _might_ be able to walk under it, but not run! And we still need Fudge!"

"Okay! Okay," Harry surrendered miserably. "I just wish that Fred or George could take my place."

"Harry, make no mistake, I'm sure they'd love to. But they're probably going to have your identity magically verified before they let you on stage."

"Right, right."

Just then, George walked by them, his fake mustache and floppy hat not disguising his enormous smile. He looked for all the world like a food vendor , such as one might see at a football pitch or baseball game, except for the fifteen pounds of highly dangerous wizard fireworks concealed under the false bottom of the goods box strapped to the front of his stomach. That wasn't usually standard equipment for food vendors.

"I'm ready!" he said, looking around eagerly. "Everyone else?"

"Yes!" Piped up Hermione. There was more of a squeak in her voice than usual, Harry noticed.

"Ready over here" said Ron.

Harry hung his head, and said "Ready." with reluctance.

"Okay, and remember, Harry, the storeroom on the second floor, that's where they keep all the old memos and notes, so no one ever goes in there, That's where we meet."

There was a sudden chorus of clicks and flashes, and a smattering of applause.

"Sounds like they're getting started. You better get a move on, Harry. You two, Ron." warned Fred. Quickly, he disappeared into the press of bodies, shouting appropriate solicitations. "Get yer pumpkin pasties! Get 'em while they're… pumpkin-shaped!" and "Bertie Bott's Ev-Er-Ee Flay-Vor Beans! The goodie for the gambling man! Step on up, nice and neatly please!" were evidently favorites of his.

"_That clown might even turn a profit on this!"_ admired Ron wonderingly.

"Come on, Ron, duck behind the rubbish bins and drink it! We don't have all day!" Hermione said, arms folded.

"Okay, but I still think this whole thing is wrong."

When he ducked behind the trash cans, he was Ronald Weasley. What came back out, however, wasn't Ron at all.

What played out next was wonderful. It was ingenious. It was remarkable. And, except for one small but important oversight, it went exactly as planned.

-O-

One could nearly expect this performance to have a musical score. Here was the smiling Minister of Magic, waving his short arms enthusiastically to the crowd, who despite the artificially cheery atmosphere, did not seem too energetic. Several people, upon seeing the Minister, congratulated themselves on their wardrobe choice, they had indeed picked correctly. Here came Harry, flanked by a smiling, easily recognized Arthur Weasley, in his best suit. A trio of powerfully built men in smart suits stepped between Harry and the stage and gave him handshakes, in what seemed to be a perfunctory fashion, if it weren't for the incredibly piercing looks they had in their eyes. Cleared by the secret security squad, for that is what they were, Harry took the stage, and stood uneasily before the crowd as Fudge took this opportunity to wax poetic about a citizen's responsibilities to their government. No one noticed the food vendor who casually put down his box at the back of the crowd and calmly walked away. No one noticed the red-headed boy who wormed his way to the front of the crowd, and no one noticed that, except for a long cloak he had draped over him, he was wearing the exact same clothes as the boy in front of the cameras. Harry had almost managed to completely lose interest in the diatribe, and then he heard his name mentioned.

"And now, the famous Harry Potter, hero to millions, would like to share some words with you, the public. Harry Potter, ladies and gentlemen!"

He stepped away from the podium, and through a blizzard of applause and flashbulbs motioned Harry forward, smiling all the while.

In the crowd, an apparently empty spot next to the red-headed boy in the front groaned.

"_What?!" _he whispered furiously.

"_We forgot to write him a speech!"_

"_WHAT?!"_

"_Oh no…"_

_Oh no! _Harry's mind quailed, and stalled. His feet somehow, moving by themselves, brought him to the pit.

He cleared his throat. The crowd looked on expectantly.

He said, "Er."

-O-

How Harry managed the speech that came next would forever be a mystery to everyone, including himself. It was pithy, blatantly patriotic, and laced with vague flowery nothings about heritage, responsibility, and privilege. In other words, it was perfect. It might have just been blind, dumb luck that when he floundered about for words, those were the ones he found. It might have been some benevolent but mischievous deity, who had taken a look and decided to pat them on the back for their spunk. It might have even been that Harry was a born politician, but really, the deity one was more realistic.

He wrapped up his manna-from-Heaven speech, and turned to the Minister, hand extended. Fudge's face nearly glowed with pride. He readily took it in a hearty handshake, and Harry, with great care and precision, clapped his left hand on top of Fudge's right.

"Great job, m'boy, really excellent!" said an ecstatic Cornelius Fudge, clearly overjoyed.

"It was _my honor, _sir." said Harry, earnestly as possible.

If Fudge had had more time, he would have wondered why Harry had enunciated those words so carefully. He also would have wondered about the slight pinch he had just felt on the back of his hand. However, what happened next completely captured his attention.

Which was good, because, it was the entire point of a distraction, after all.

-O-

The redheaded boy in front walked out of the crowd. With a casual, easily missed flick of the wrist, he tossed a lit match into the box left behind by the mysterious food vendor. Something inside began to fizz, and smoke furiously. With the same calm, but with quite a bit more haste, he resumed his earlier position close to the front of the stage. As far away from the box as possible.

Suddenly, like a demon rousing itself from the depths of hell, a terribly loud high-pitched keening noise caused everyone to reflexively cover their ears. By now the column of smoke was unmissable, and huge towers of sparks, as well as multicolored gouts of flame were issuing forth from some place, lost behind the sea of people. Security scrambled into action, struggling to get through the teeming and heaving mass of panicked wizards. All of them, assuming some sort of attack was in the offing, scrambled for safety, adding to the general chaos and confusion. Harry was tempted to act now, but he had to wait, wait and close his eyes, wait until the small firework at the bottom of the box, shaped like a silver egg, went off. Fred and George were so proud of that one.

And, with a flash like a supernova, he found out why. It was an avalanche of impossibly bright light, which seemed to burn through his eyelids and leave strange dancing purple shadows criss-crossing his vision.

Even if people had been facing away from the flare, the reflections off the wall and windows would have done the job just as effectively. It would only last a couple of minutes, but for that amount of time, none of the crowd, except those who knew it was coming, would be able to see. Now, while everyone was blinded, they could spring into action.

If the Ministry had ever done a head-count of the wizards entering the building amidst the chaos and confusion, they would have been very confused. Because, it seemed that, unless he had a long-lost twin, _two _Arthur Weasleys had come in. And, stranger still, they never left.

-O-

They say that necessity is the mother of invention. Winemakers needed a way to seal their amphora and bottles, so they invented corks. Then, they needed a way to get the corks out without all the crumbly wood bits getting into the damn wine, so they invented corkscrews. Similarly, Harry and the others needed a way to get to Hogwarts, so they concocted something twisty and sharp of their own.

And, just like a using a corkscrew, it was simple, once you got the trick.

-O-

George and Fred really had outdid themselves this time. Their pyrotechnics did indeed light up the street for miles. Of course, they also melted the cobblestones six centimeters underneath them, but they were so pretty, you could almost forgive them.

The havoc had even managed to reach the third floor, where Aurors, junior grade, Samuel Nobbs and Reggie Smith stood flanking the paneled door that led to Cornelius Fudge's chamber. They desperately wanted to go to the window and see what the fuss was about, but they were far too afraid of their sergeant to leave their posts to try it. (No matter the nation, no matter the branch, no matter the army, there is always a sergeant. Always.)

Guarding the door to the Minister's office was actually a pretty posh position, just as long as he wasn't in one of his "little moods". Reggie's father, highly connected in the Ministry, had had to pull some strings pretty hard in order to arrange it. Normally, of course, much more experienced wizards would handle the task, but seeing as how he wasn't in his office for the moment, it wasn't considered high-priority, and so, they were basically qualified to do the job, which was stand still and look forbidding. It was very simple.

Or, it was until a raving mad Cornelius Fudge came up the staircase in a way that shocked their spines, and glared at them so intensely they thought their hair would catch fire. It was clear that he was, indeed, in one of the much feared "little moods".

"Well?!" He shouted. "Why aren't you outside sorting this mess out?!"

They felt sick with dismay. This was worse than ten sergeants. "S-s-sir, we were ordered to-"

"Ordered?! _Ordered?! _Son, if I want you to tell me what you were _ordered_, I'll _tell you! _Now get out of here! ON. THE. DOUBLE!" he roared, his voice belying his small stature.

That did it for them. They hustled, as fast as they could, down the staircase, almost tripping themselves up on the way down. They passed Mr. Weasley on the way down, but didn't pay him any mind. They saw him every day, after all.

As soon as the clatter from their retreating boots quieted, Fudge called down the stairs.

"Okay! Come on!"

Arthur climbed up the staircase, and when he reached the Minister, smiled. "That was really good."

"Thanks." said Fudge, returning the smile. "Lets do what we came here for." He stood in front of the door and opened it, motioning Arthur inside. Arthur ran in, and then, mysteriously, it shut itself.

Once she was inside, Hermione, with backpack, threw off the Invisibility Cloak. "Finally! I was starting to feel like I'd never take this off!"

Both of the men grinned at her.

"And change back, already! It's creepy to look at you two looking like that." she said, reddening a little bit.

She unslung the satchel from her shoulder, and tossed it to the two of them. "The private bathroom is that door there. Go and change."

Fudge caught it, and he and Arthur walked in. A short time later, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley walked out, dressed in their usual robes, looking perfectly healthy, if a little tired.

"I guess your plan worked." said Harry, happily.

"Yes, well, lets just hope that Fred and George remembered that they're not done yet."

-O-

The first rule of journalism is, write everything down. The second rule is, when all else fails, follow the big names.

As soon as the reporters for the Daily Prophet recovered their eyesight, they saw security hurriedly bustling the confused Minister and his entourage inside the building. Knowing that there was no chance for comment there, they focused on their secondary target: the Boy who Lived.

They saw him being rushed away by a jacket-less Arthur Weasley, who was sensibly running from the spectacle. It certainly made sense, as Harry was definitely a valid target for assassination. It took them several minutes to gather their equipment and give chase.

However, when they reached the street that they were sure that the young wizard had turned down, all they saw were two startled-looking red-headed twins, playing a game of Exploding Snap on a stoop. Figuring that Arthur must have Apparated away with the important youth, they cursed their lost chance for a scoop, and left.

Once they had gone, the two boys snickered, and started laughing. The bag by their feet contained all the articles of clothing that Harry and Arthur had been wearing.

It was a good thing that their father had only ever had one sort of taste in clothes, they considered. It gave them plenty of copies. They'd just have to make sure they were all returned, was all. Clothes didn't grow on trees.

-O-

The secret to this caper, which of course you have already figured out, was in the wineskins that Fred and George had filled the night before.

Polyjuice Potion.

It turns out that you can take it to turn into anyone, even if they are a different gender, and as often as needed, as long as you don't try and turn into an animal. You could, for example, use it to turn your best friend into his dad. He could escort you to a stage, where you could shake hands with a very (self) Important Man. Then you could have your other best friend go to the front of the crowd under the cover of a Invisibility Cloak, carrying a magically large rucksack full of clothes, and wait for a really big explosion, provided by your first friend's twin brothers, Once that happened, your female friend could toss you the Invisibility Cloak, down a copy of the potion your other friend had drunk, and turn into another duplicate. Then, the three of you could take further advantage of the confusion, split up, and run into the building unhindered, two of you replicas of a recognizable employee not likely to be hassled, and yourself unable to be seen. To cover your absence, one of the twins outside could become yet another copy of their father, and the other a copy of you. They make a big show of running away, then once out of eyeshot, ditch the clothing in favor of that hidden underneath, and take another set of potions, this time to transform them back to themselves. Meanwhile, you meet up again at a predetermined location, your female friend takes the time to pull out the carefully made imitation of the Important Man's clothing from her spacious backpack, and using the Invisibility Cloak, changes back into her form and attire. With a pair of tweezers, you could pull out the tiny hairs your ring trapped when you shook the Important Man's hand, place it into a blank dose of Potion, and, after changing yet again, take on a very convincing facsimile of the Important Man's appearance. From then on, you can just cow two highly impressionable guards, gain access to his office, and, going by tradition, to the only completely-networked (going in one direction, of course, except for very few others) fireplace in Great Britain. And then, with just a dash of Floo Powder, you could go wherever you wished.

But, of course, that's only an example.

(Part One, End)

_That was a long flashback, huh?_

_Well, don't worry, as a watcher of TV, (probably more than is healthy), I have noted the irritating predilection some shows have of focusing an entire episode on expositions of something that occurred in the past, when most of the viewers, (me included), would much rather have them continue to progress the current plot! I have seen this indignity, ladies and gentlemen, and I shall not fall prey to it! Below is a further offering, resuming where the last update left off. New clues shall be discovered! _

_Okay, now that I've stepped off my soapbox, please enjoy the remainder of this update. And, again, please review. It is my sustenance, and my motivation._

_TLW_

(Part Two, Begin)

The blond alchemist numbly walked forward to the blood-stained patch of carpet. Then, he looked around. Some chilly, untouched part of his mind noted how all of the transmuted ridges, spikes and spears of this room seemed to come in and point at this one spot.

He heard a little _crunch_ under his foot, and he lifted it, to see.

It was a small pair of half-moon spectacles, bent sadly, one of the lenses cracked and useless.

A black wall of emotion crushed him, and stormed out of the room. The room that his presence had destroyed. The room whose master he had somehow murdered.

"Ed, Wait!"

He looked back at her. McGonagall blanched: his face was the face of a man staring back from the shores of the abyss. "I... did this."

"W-what?! Ed, you can't mean-"

He kept on walking, and then started running. He ran faster and faster, down staircases and through passages, heading somewhere, _anywhere, _other than here.

The trio of friends saw him race past them.

"Wha? Ed!" called out Harry, as loudly as he dared.

"He-he's leaving?!" Hermione exclaimed, surprised.

"Harry." said Ron dully.

"Where is he running to? Harry asked, eyes narrowed. "Where could he be going?"

"Harry." Ron said again, plaintively.

"What, Ron?!" Harry said, frustratedly.

"Look where he ran, Harry. Look at his footprints."

Harry looked down. You couldn't miss them. The floor whas white and black marble. But the marks his boots had made were red.

-O-

_How stupid am I?_ , Edward cursed himself inwardly. _How could I have thought that I could help? It's always been my fault! I tried to bring my mother back, and nearly lost everything. And then, my brother gives his life to give me back my body, and what do I do? I try to bring him back! I never learn! People die, because I never, ever learn!_

His feet beat a rhythm on the floor.

-O-

Harry knelt down next to the grisly trail, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped it on the floor. It came away with a dry, crystalline red powder.

"This...this isn't blood. What is this?" Harry mused to himself quietly. He sniffed it curiously, and almost started to cough. "It smells like...chemicals."

-O-

Ed had found the main entrance to the castle, and ran out. A pair of very interested eyes followed his movement. He'd been very hard to track down initially. His superiors hadn't thought that Dumbledore would have been bold enough to keep him in London, though he was simple enough to stalk after that had been settled. And then, on the day when he was due to fufill the contract, the brat disappears and he has to track him all the way to Hogwarts!

But, now that the kill was close, all that didn't matter. His superiors had been very specific about killing him quickly, and not underestimating him, but now that he saw how pathetically small the boy was, he was going to take his time, to _enjoy _it. This is when all those..._changes_... that had been made to him really paid off. He could feel the hunt, coursing in his veins. Oh yes, he was going to enjoy this.

His voice was an inhuman growl.

"Say good-bye, little boy." He grinned, showing teeth that were _too_ long. "Say _goodnight."_


	10. Chapter 10

That was a long time, wasn't it? Unfortunately, I'm juggling several jobs at the moment, along with other projects and I've not had much time to devote to the wonderful and, sort of, _selfish_ practice of writing this fanfiction. I've been gone too long; all I can do is earnestly beg for forgiveness. Abase myself. Genuflect and perform ablutions in the sacred temple, etcetera. You get what I mean.

Anyway, in this chapter, some new information is revealed, information which I hope you will find interesting, or at least interesting enough to keep reading. This chapter is a bit on the long side, so keep at it! Also, I'm in the process of looking for an editor or beta. I think another set of eyes would be great here. And lastly, please review. If the spirit moves you, please don't hesitate!

Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling, Fullmetal Alchemist is owned by Square Enix.

Don't sue.

Chapter 10: Turn

Whomsoever says that they do not believe in mistakes, just 'happy accidents', should probably be taken into the back of an alley and shot on general principle, if not to save time. Mistakes, for the most part, are not happy; they are unfailingly negative, embarrassing, and sometimes lethal affairs that usually are instrumental in the destruction of a perfectly reasonable and kind person's life. Mistakes kill people.

Edward knew this fact. He knew mistakes were not to be tolerated. Other people could tell him that he was being unreasonable all they wanted to, it wouldn't change anything. There is a place that they should happen, and people they should happen to. He wasn't one of those people. He knew better. Which was why he was so angry at himself for charging out of the castle, just because of…of the Headmaster's death. So what? He'd seen death before. Death probably knew him by his first name by now. It was inexcusable. How could he, he ranted inside his head, have done something so entirely _stupid_ as leave the castle in a headlong flight?! That wasn't the actions of a scientist, it was the actions of a-a pathetically _angst-ridden teenager_!

The very small part of Edward's brain that suggested that this might have been because he _was_, in fact, a teenager, was immediately shouted down by the rest of his head. (A little known fact about the human mind is that, because human minds are actually run by committee, whenever someone says that they hear voices, they might not be insane. They might just be _good listeners_.)

Regardless, Ed had just made a very big mistake. He had run out of a large and extremely confusing building in an area he knew nothing about, into the open, where a known and extremely dangerous killer had recently escaped. Not exactly a _preferable _situation.

He was going to have to walk back in the castle now, explain his outburst, and it was going to be awkward. Ed just knew it. And he still didn't have _any idea _what was going on! Alchemy! Alchemy, _here?! _Unbelievable!

Ed's eyes caught the motion to his left a little too late.

Something solid, like a long sandbag as wide as a man's thigh, whipped into his stomach with the force of a wrecking ball. His breath blasted out of his lungs. Ed was thrown back, for meters, cracking him against the solid rock of Hogwarts. The sudden outright _violence_ of it was so stunning, Ed almost had no comprehension of it happening.

Several somethings had snapped in his chest.

He slumped down. Through a haze of pain, he looked up at his assailant, arms slack at his sides. He tried to flex the wrist of his right hand, but it had struck a corner of the stone block he had impacted at a strange angle. He felt unfamiliar resistance, along with the scraping sound of some internal component rubbing against an adjacent part. That was _bad_. His left arm felt nerveless. His legs, his _lungs_, needed time to recover.

He looked up at his attacker.

The man was tall and broad, his brow heavy, and his jaw bunched with sinew. He wore a ratty hoodie and torn jeans, of a nondescript design. The only interesting thing was the way they should have hung loose, but were really stretched taut by hidden slabs of muscle. However, all of those features paled next to what was sticking out the back of his pants: a long, strong tail, covered with thick knobbly green scales. . He grinned a heartstopping grin, with sharp triangle teeth, and leered at him. Ed saw, with a start, that his eyes looked almost exactly like molten gold.

"Is that it, little lad?" He mocked Ed.

"Come on. Get up. Start running. Make this _fun_. I'll wait." His voice was cruelty itself.

Ed coughed. A bad cough. He tasted iron, that meant internal bleeding…

Something nagged at him through the red haze. A tail. Eyes like a reptile. Teeth that were too sharp. His foe clearly wasn't a man, at least, not anymore. But it seemed so familiar…What was he?

And in a rush of remembered blood, sin, and the death cry of a little girl, it all made sense.

"Ch-chimera…" he wheezed.

The grin grew wider. "Cor', they said you were _clever_. Good one. Better get up, clever lad. I'm losing _patience._"

_A chimera? Here!? And they_? Who was they?!

"Who…who do y-you mean? _Cough!!_" He nearly doubled over.

"Is this more cleverness, then? Have you a wand tucked somewhere, trying to get me talking so's you can use it? Well, I'll let you know, it won't work. I put on lots of protections _before_ I swatted you like a fly."

Some change flitted across his mouth, he was amused by something. "It might be better to tell you. Prey is always more entertaining when terrified." His eyes, implacable, bored into Edward. "My lord, Voldemort. He lets me kill as much as I like, so I follow him. And, thanks to his new…friend, I'm _stronger_, and _faster _than ever, and it feels that much _better _to tear and crush people into little dripping pieces."

He was doing a good job of being scary, but one thing he didn't know was that Edward was no shrinking violet. Something about having faced down soulless monsters, megalomaniacal, mass-murdering dictators, and the unblinking eye of infinity contained within a physical manifestation of the universe's collective knowledge, tended to make a, well, a _lizard-man _seem somewhat passé.

Of course, that didn't mean he wasn't _dangerous. _Edward couldn't outfight him, in this state, and he_ certainly_ couldn't outrun him, which left... ah. Right. Out-foxing.

Edward looked around for something to use. Manipulating the stone of the castle wasn't a good idea. He didn't have any idea what happened when you reshaped the physical parameters of a magical building whose interior was spread across more dimensions than a M. C. Escher etching, but he sure didn't want to find out, and he had a feeling the inhabitants wouldn't be wild about the idea either.

But there wasn't much else. Just grass. Lots and lots of green, lush grass. He reflected on this. They hadn't had rain for several days, had they? Hmm...

Something in his head clicked. He smiled. Now, he just had to get the big lug mad enough for it to work.

"Well…isn't that just…special? Cross a psychopath with…a crocodile…and look what… you get," Ed grinned, despite his state, "an… _even uglier…_ crocodile."

The man stopped grinning, and his face started to turn the color of a ripe plum.

Unbeknownst to the would-be assassin, Edward's hand was carefully tracing out something in the dirt behind his back.

"Let me…guess. You provide the…brute force…and the crocodile does all the…thinking."

He charged just as Edward's hand completed the circle, closing the circuit.

Crackling lightning ran across the ground, and earthed itself into the patch of ground right in front of the menacing figure.

For a heart-stopping fraction of a second, nothing happened.

Then there was noise, and chaos, and a huge, roiling ball of flame that knocked, no, _lifted_ the reptilian man up off his feet, blasting his clothes to smoldering shreds, incinerating his hair and eyebrows in an instant, and tossing him like a poorly-made marionette.

The shockwave buffeted Edward too, making his eyes tear up, and filling his nose with the smell of burnt cloth and manure. Oh yes, he _really_ needed to remember to thank Hagrid for the manure. After all, the stuff made such _great_ fertilizer, and everyone knew how explosive fertilizer could be, didn't they?

Especially when all of the nitrate in it is concentrated, and heated to five times its ignition temperature.

He grinned.

Slowly, carefully, Ed picked himself up. His chest creaked in new and disturbing ways, and his legs were giving him warning twinges, that he was really going to regret all this in the morning.

While he was still in the ranks of Central's military, his close friend Lieutenant Havoc once told him a story about one of the members of his first unit, PFC Johannes Gaines. Jo had been on patrol on the Ishbalan border, making sure that none of the few remaining bands of insurgents attempted a strike behind their lines, with three other soldiers from his platoon. They were walking along a roadway, about half a click from the front line. Suddenly, Jo had heard a voice, Havoc said, a voice as clear as his own voice speaking to Ed right now, that told him to _get down_. Sam obeyed it without thinking, he kissed the dirt just as hostiles who had been waiting to ambush the pat' triggered the unexploded tank shells, packed into 50 centimeter lead pipe filled with scavenged nails and shards of pottery, they had left buried on either side of the road. The blast took care of the point man, ripping his chest open and taking off both his legs. The other lost a hand and eye to shrapnel, with a stray piece catching him in the throat and by a freak chance nicking the carotid. Jo had barely escaped with his life, but thanks to that strange voice, didn't have a scratch on him. He turned, and remained, a religious man to this day.

Ed had the chalked up the tale to superstitious nonsense, that he had merely reacted to subconscious cues of the threat, or maybe it was just pure coincidence that he had tripped as the bomb had gone off, and later decided to embroider the truth a little bit to make it more fascinating. After all, Ed held, people die in war all the time. If there was really someone looking out for them, he said, wouldn't it happen less?

Regardless, there now came a voice in Edward's head, a voice whose orders he followed instantly and implicitly. Acting purely on instinct, he threw himself to the ground, ignoring the pain, clapped his hands, and raised a wall of the most densely-packed earth he could manage.

Not a second too soon.

An actinic lance of fire geysered out from somewhere within the slowly dissipating cloud of smoke, hurling itself against the hastily-made barrier. It was so hot, the front of the wall glowed red, then orange, then _white_. Ed, however, didn't let it be blown to cinders, he kept the transmutation going, dissipating the heat as fast as he could, finding places to put it safely. Nearby, a small part of the lake flashed into steam. Dew evaporated off the grass. An errant boulder's surface rippled the air briefly, then it cleft down the middle with a sudden crack as the internal stresses rose past its threshold of tolerance.

Ed, grimacing from the strain of maintaining his alchemy, managed to lift himself high enough to get a quick glance over at his opponent. He was severely nonplussed, even with the added toughness of that chimeric form, the explosion he had caused should have been enough to knock him unconscious. What kind of spell was this flamethrower stunt he was pulling, anyway?

One look at his foe was enough to tell him that he had made a_ second_ fatal mistake that day.

Ed had made several assumptions in the past, assumptions that on various occasions had come back to bite him, but there were none he could readily think of that presented nearly as many dire consequences as this.

Oh, he could just kick himself! The chimera had played him, hadn't corrected him, had let him believe what he wanted him to believe…

Sharp teeth. Scales. A tail. It was a perfectly logical conclusion, to think crocodile. But then, he looked over the barrier and saw the _flames_ roaring from his mouth, saw the tiny, stubby _wings_ that his sweater had hid, and it was painfully obvious…

He was a dragon chimera. An _alchemic chimera_ made with a _magical animal_ as raw material!

Of course the explosion hadn't taken him down, then. A creature that's essentially a flying butane torch wouldn't be hurt by a little compression and heat. Dammit! What now?

The stream of fire died down. Apparently, he was out of breath. What would happen once he got it back?

Desperation made Ed act. He clapped again, then planted his hands in the earth once more. In front of him, without his energies continually maintaining and reconstructing the barrier he had erected, it collapsed into a mound of something like ash.

Colossal hands erupted out of the ground, but the draconic hybrid dodged with preternatural grace and speed, always one step ahead of the grasping fingers and crushing fists. And always moving closer and closer to Ed.

He was so near now that Ed could see his smile. Panicked, he redoubled his efforts, his attacking forms lashing out, becoming less defined as fists, but simple whips and columns, more rudimentary…

Edward's excitement and fear merely made them even easier to dodge. His smile grew wider…

Ed could see the look of his eyes now, soon he would be close enough to-

-And then something strange happened. It was so strange that, for a while, Ed had trouble believing that it had happened at all.

A small grey streak raced across the grass towards them, capturing both their attention for a millisecond, halting the maniac's assault. It leapt upward, almost to the killer's eye level, finally resolving itself in their sight as a black and gray housecat. It somersaulted, flipping mid air, almost _languorously_, and suddenly, it was not a cat, but Professor McGonagall, her mouth set into a line of firm determination. And with her wand pointed straight at the eye of the assassin, at less than a foot away.

He was agog. There was no time to dodge.

It should be noted that a stunning spell is normally meant to be used from a distance. Up close, it has a force, totally apart from its potent magical payload, somewhat equitable to the strike of an eight-kilo sledgehammer being swung by a strong, vital young man.

"STUPEFY!"

The assassin's head was knocked sideways, like a game of tee-ball where the ball is glued to the stand. He fell. He didn't get up.

McGonagall's feet landed neatly, almost _politely_, on the ground.

She walked over to Edward's slumped, weakened form with a look of concern on her face. Almost as an afterthought, she stuck her wand hand out, said something under her breath. Black cables shot out of the tip, binding the helpless figure securely. Ed managed to see that she made sure to tie shut his mouth as well.

Her mouth still set in that small frown, she reached him, and pulled her spectacles down from where she had perched them on her head, to better her examination.

She clucked her tongue.

"Oh dear. It looks like you may have broken some ribs, Mr. Elric. We'll have to have our nurse Madam Pomfrey look you over."

Ed stared, mouth open.

Her tone was now more along the lines of slight annoyance. "You mightn't want to dawdle, there is no telling if this fellow has friends waiting. You can stand, can't you? Come on now, up you go."

She held out her hand to Ed, and he carefully pulled himself to his feet. The small exertion made him cough.

"Now now, shallow breaths until we get you inside. Without hyperventilating, mind."

With one hand steadying Ed, she gave another look at the prone figure on the floor.

"I believe someone wants to assassinate you, Edward. This man was significantly strong, certainly a step up from the usual Death Eater, and he targeted you in particular."

Ed didn't have anything to add. He was actually still speechless.

Meanwhile, McGonagall had leaned him gently against the wall, and made her way to one of the many striking fists that Ed had transmuted from the earth. She gave it an intent stare. She tapped it with her wand… no effect.

"Edward?" She said lightly.

Ed shook the thoughts of _startlingly_ deft magic-play by middle-aged schoolteachers out of his head. "Yes, Professor?"

"Dumbledore thought you were very interesting. And, did you know? I am beginning to think the same thing."

"Yes, Professor."

"This isn't magic, is it, Edward?"

_Crap. How do you answer this one, Ed?_ He cursed internally,_ …Guess I'll have to play dumb._

"…I'm not sure. Ma'am."

"_Hmmm_. Well then, let's get you to the hospital wing. It's probably best if we release this man into the custody of the Ministry, as he undoubtedly has something to do with the…attack. Coincidences are not ever _this _coincidental."

She smoothed back the few flyaway hairs that had managed to escape her bun. Clearly, this woman was not one it was wise to push. Gone was the uncertainty, gone was the grief, replaced entirely by purpose, and deliberate action.

Such a sudden change was surprising, to say the least. _Very_ surprising…

Ed breathed a (shallow) sigh of relief that he had escaped being the center of attention for the moment.

"But Edward…"

Arrgh. Of _course_ he wouldn't get away without more questions!

"I am scheduling you an appointment with a specialist. He is expert in obscure magical abilities and quirks, and he may be able to shine some light on this ability of yours."

"Do I have a choice?"

"At this point, Edward? No. No, I _think_ not."

…

Madame Pomfrey had done a good job. She had bustled and fussed from place to place, reminding Ed of a rather busy hen, but he didn't have any complaints. She carted him off to a large cushy bed with loads of pillows, then gave him a blue potion that popped and fizzed to kill the pain. She than did her thing, waving her wand, and a delicate golden glow washed over Ed's chest, warming him from the inside out. His ribs had healed up great, along with the rest of his wounds.

His automail was a bit more problematic. He had opened it up, after he was sure he was alone in the room, and done some basic repairs and maintenance. Thankfully, it was just one of the movement arms on the second tier that was bent, and rubbing up against the rotator assembly and the flange rebate. It was an easy fix. If the damage had been to something more complex, he might have been in a lot of trouble...

He closed the hatch under his forearm carefully, then replaced the screws, and watched the false skin spun of magic and light conceal all traces from view.

He leaned back on the comfortable pile of pillows, and put his hands behind his head, and thought about the day's events.

Someone knew alchemy here. Someone knew enough about it to make a sentient, albeit _deranged_ chimera, how to prep someone as an assassin, and familiar with on-the-go transmutations. Ones without a circle.

Could it be a homunculi? They had plenty of knowledge of alchemy, and Envy in particular had lived _centuries_. He certainly knew alchemy, and even if he couldn't perform it himself, there were ways around that… one way especially, that would also give him a bargaining position.

Fake stones. That would sure as hell guarantee him a post in Voldemort's little army of freaks, wouldn't it? Voldemort _loved _power, if what he had read about him was anything to go by, and the red stones provided exactly that… alchemic power, on tap, available to any wizard or witch with the right allegiance. He wouldn't care about the lives it took to refine them from the raw chemical form, he'd just care about the end result.

There could be a veritable factory out there right now, a new Laboratory Five, churning out the damnable things by the pocketful. And who knows what other kind of menaces they could be cooking up as he laid here on this comfortable bed, just waiting to spring a brand new terror upon innocent people! He had to do something!

Ed tried to shake off the thought, knowing that there was very little he could do while fatigued, in the middle of the night, with nowhere to go and no way to get there. He tried to sleep.

After fifteen minutes of tossing and turning, it became clear to Ed that dreamland was just as far away as it was a quarter-hour ago.

Not knowing what else to do, he decided to go for a walk.

So, he fumbled for the slippers by the end of the bed, and threw on his red hoodie over the thin hospital gown, which despite being more substantial than a muggle's version, and covered with colorful prints of pointy hats and cauldrons, was not very comfortable. He started to walk through the darkened hospital wing.

Hospitals, when abandoned, are haunting places to visit, especially at night, and doubly so _if they are actually haunted._

Here, in the unlit passage a short way from the smokeless candle near his bed, was divided strikingly between columns of deep darkness. The wind, from a few of the small opened windows, made the triage and privacy curtains around the beds billow in the moonlight. Occasionally, he caught a glint of light from one of the many bottles clustering the wall, and from the strange hand-sized chrome instruments of some arcane medical function residing in bins and hung on hooks. There were IV stands, and once Ed was startled when a figure appeared before him, cloak rippling, which turned out to be nothing more than a white lab robe on a coat rack. There was a slight chill in the air near his exposed ankles, revealing the closeness of fall.

He reached the end of the hall, and faced two carpet-covered staircases, one ascending, one descending, and on the wall, to his surprise, was a laminated directory. He had thought that getting around in Hogwarts was a mixture of luck and remembering to tie a ball of string to something so that you could bloody well find your way back, but this showed a level of compassion to well-wishers and visiting friends than he had anticipated. He studied it for a moment, hoping to learn something useful.

He frowned. Whoever had made this directory had made a mistake. In the first basement, there were supposed to be three private rooms, if the pattern on the other five floors held true. But here, it skipped straight from room S01 to S03.

Then again, this was Hogwarts. You were lucky if you stayed in the same _week_ if you went through the wrong door, let alone floor…

While he was pondering this, he became aware of a clanking sound coming from behind. He looked back, behind him, and saw nothing.

Then, he looked up, and saw Peeves, the pinched-face poltergeist, smiling unpleasantly at him, and banging two tin cups from the hospital nightstands together like a monkey.

"What's this?!" cried Peeves, in unconvincingly surprised tones ."An ickle-firstie out of bed? _And _before the year even starts?! _Oh, double_- naughtie!"

"Ok, listen…whatever your name is, be quiet! All I'm doing is taking a walk to try and get tired, alright? So there's no need to-"

"_STUDENTS OUT OF BED! STUDENTS OUT OF BED IN THE HOSPITAL WING!" _Peeves shrieked merrily, smashing the cups together to add to the racket. There was the sound of hurried footsteps coming his way.

Ed turned tail and fled back to bed. It was going to be a long night.

…

'Yawn!'

"Serves you right , Ed."

"All I did was yawn!"

"And _whose_ fault is it that you're so tired?"

Ed went wisely silent.

"I thought as much. Now stay quiet."

After last night's adventure, Ed had barely managed to get a few hours of sleep, after the long and unnecessary lecture he had gotten about the importance of remaining in bed to prevent mishap. Ed had been hearing quite a few of those recently.

They were standing in the waiting room of the hospital wing, willing the clock to strike 7 A.M. Professor McGonnagal, for her part, and completely out of character, was holding an old wine bottle.

She had explained its purpose, as something called a "Portkey", a convenient teleportation tool for those who had several to transport, and didn't want to risk side-along Apparation, or if the Floo network was unfeasible. Unfortunately, as a one-use item, you had no choice but to stand around and wait for its appointed time to activate, because there was no second chance to use it, which made it a pretty terrible way to find out your watch was five minutes slow.

"Now Ed, I want you to be polite to Dr. Burgess. He is a very venerable and respected individual, and I won't have your disrespect."

"Hey, waitaminute! You _order _me to come here, and then demand I respect him? What the hell is that?!"

McGonnagal frowned. "I am fully aware of how _difficult _it is for you to be civil in these circumstances, Edward. Regardless, there are certain…extenuating factors that must be considered in the good doctor's case that- Oh, the time! Grab on, Ed!"

Ed ran forward and grabbed the neck of the bottle. Just as he did, the clock struck seven, and that familiar 'hooked and pulled' feeling seized him, and he was twisting and turning in the same physically disquieting way, though he was rather proud that he had thought to shut his eyes this time.

After a few seconds, the feelings faded, and he opened his them a crack.

He was in a doctor's clinic. A plain, run of the mill doctors clinic, with chairs for sitting and waiting, and magazine stands, and a potted plant that … that had picked up a magazine, and was… _reading_ it, tearing out pages here and there, with thin branch-arms, and sticking them in the soil by it's roots…

"Um, professor, is that plant…reading?"

She looked askance at it. "I suppose it is. Some variety of _Biblioflora_, I would guess. I never was particularly apt at Herbology. They make excellent house plants, I've heard, just give them an old newspaper every three days and they're happy."

"B-but, isn't paper made from pulp? You know, _trees_? Isn't that kind of morbid, that there's a plant that reads books made of-"

"Well, I should think not! Really, what else is there for a plant to do all day? Just sit there?"

"Er, well…"

"Excuse me?" a voice from behind the counter inquired. "Mrs. Headmistress?"

It came from a smallish woman with too much makeup, holding a clipboard with some very complicated-looking forms on it. Her tiny hands had so many rings on them, they clinked together like castanets.

"Could you please fill these out? In the meantime, Edward, honey, you can go through that door there to the second waiting room. The doctor will be with you soon." She said, with genuine warmth.

Ed walked into the open doorway, and discovered, to his surprise, that he wasn't the only one here. There were four others, a boy with almost laughably thick glasses, one who was ordinary enough, even if he seemed incredibly nervous, a brutish-looking young man with dark brown hair and a scowl, sitting as far from the others as he could manage, and a girl, who, despite her evident good humor, had her hair in a very unflattering tight bun. She seemed delighted to see him.

"Wow, a new face! That doesn't happen very often around here. What's your name?"

"Er. Edward. Who are-"

"Lofty!"

"Lofty?"

She nodded. "My name's Laura Effelt Mimsel, but you can call me Lofty! And he's Trevor, and that's Jonathan. Welcome!"

The one called Trevor gave him a tentative wave, and Jonathan, the lenses from his spectacles catching the light, cracked a grin.

The boy in the corner snorted rudely. "Yeah, welcome to the _freak club_, Ed. Hope you enjoy your stay." He snickered to himself.

"The one sitting by himself over in the corner, who is _mean _and a _jerk_ is Marcus. You just ignore him." Lofty said with a bit of a bite, while staring daggers in Marcus's direction.

She turned her attention back to Ed.

"We're all here because Dr. Burgess is the only one who can treat us. He's a genius, you know." She said brightly. "So, what are you in here for?"

Um. This was awkward. What should he say?

He remembered the incident with the rock that he had accidentally sent through the ceiling of Tom's bar.

"I… have trouble with control." That was true, wasn't it?

"Wow! So you're like us, huh?" She said.

"I'm- what?"

"Well, all of us in here have trouble with control. That's why we're here." She said, as if it explained everything.

"Really?"

"Yeah! My hair has a mind of its own, and is really mis_**cheev**_ous, so I have to keep it bound up like this, or it'll cause trouble. Trevor sometimes randomly Apparates when he blinks, so he's scared of sudden surprises, 'cause he might end up going through a wall, and no-one knows why Marcus is here, 'cause he won't say."

"And what about Jonathan?"

Marcus resumed laughing. "Yeah, Lofty! What about 'Johnnie Boke'? Isn't it about time for him to try again?"

"Shut up, Marcus!" Said Lofty angrily. "Jonathan, don't pay any attention to him. You don't have to take them off now if you don't want."

"Uh-_uh_!" Marcus leered. "Didn't the doc tell him that he had to try _every day_? That it was extremely important? He doesn't want to give up _now_, and disappoint him, does he?"

"Cut it out, Marcus! I'm _warning _you, if-"

"No, Lofty, it's all right."

Jonathan's voice was faint, but not weak, there wasn't a hint of tremor. It was the voice of someone who didn't talk very often, and therefore had that eerie ability that words of that type of person had, which was a way of filling the room, and cutting off all other conversation.

He stood up, and put his hand to the earpiece of his pop-bottle glasses.

There was a palpable air of expectation.

Ed felt that there was some context he was obviously missing here.

"_Lofty!_" He whispered harshly. "What's going on?"

"Oh, that stubborn-!" Lofty cursed. "He let him goad him into taking off his glasses!"

"Er, _what_? So, like, he'll start seeing a bunch of blurs? What's the big deal?"

"Oh, right. You don't know." Lofty said, visibly distressed. For a second, Ed thought he saw a strange tremble in her tightly wound bun, but it might have been a trick of the light. " Jonathan's something of a _special case, _the doctor says."

She frowned.

"On account of his condition. Y'see, most people wear glasses to see _more _clearly, but Johnnie wears his to see _less clearly_."

"And why does he do that?"

"Er, probably because he's, sort of… an _Omnivoyant_. Sees everything at once, sort of thing."

"What the hell is an _Omnivoyant_?"

" It's an inborn magical trait. Like being a _Parseltongue_, like Salazar Slytherin, you know? There are the run-of-the-mill spells, but they're like skills, see? With enough practice, anyone can do them, if they aren't… squibs." The term made her blush.

"But being an _Omnivoyant _is something else. It's a talent. A talent that isn't acquirable by any other means, and, unfortunately for Johnnie here, it isn't always _voluntary_. No off-switch."

"I still don't-"

Lofty got exasperated. "Okay, you see that moth right there on the wall? You see it, right? Well, in order to see it, you had to focus on it. On that one _little_ point. But Johnnie sees that little point, and the point next to it, _and_ the one next to that _just as clearly._ He can see it, but he's really young, hasn't learned to control it yet, so instead of actually _seeing _it all, his view _flicks_ between all these different focuses _really quickly_, and if he's just eaten, it tends to make him…oh no…"

There was noise of someone being violently sick. Marcus made the walls resonate with cold, mocking laughter.

" 'Sigh'. Could you get the mop, Trevor?" She shook his head, despondently. "He tries his best, he really does, but it's just too much for him."

"And that's why Marcus calls him-"

"- 'Johnny Boke', yeah."

"Right." Ed thumped his fist into his hand, as if having decided something. "Ok, just a second."

Ed left the room. "Wait, Ed, where are you-"

He grinned a mischievous grin. "Oh, there's just some… office supplies I saw as I came in that I want to grab. I'll be right back."

…

The frontperson and seceretary of Dr. Burghess's was named Letitia. She was worldly, sharp and had seen many a wizard and witch coming in for treatment over the years, in literally all shapes and sizes, including rhomboid and parallelogram. She was, for all intensive purposes, unflappable.

She heard the good doctor ring the bell in the hallway, signifying that he had finished with the latest magically afflicted patient. Mr. Stewart, his treatment having been a success, walked out looking like a new man, and not the least bit like a giant carrot.

As she went to tell the Elric boy it was his turn, however, she heard something new, and entirely unfamiliar coming from the waiting room.

Laughter.

It made her very nervous.

And when she opened the door, she saw she had good reason to be.

…

Lofty was smiling, from ear to ear. Trevor, making no attempt to hold it in, was guffawing with relish, holding his sides, and Johnnie was laughing brightly, amazed at the spectacle.

Even Ed was particularly happy with himself.

"YOU!" Marcus hollered, shuddering with rage "You LET ME GO right now, or I swear, I'll-"

"Nah. Don't feel like it." Ed smiled. "Besides, why are you complaining? You've got the best seat in the house."

He did, too. As long as he didn't feel like getting up.

Ed had duct-taped Marcus to an office chair.

"How's that orthopedic back support? Supposed to be nice." Ed said innocently.

"WHY, THE SECOND, you hear me, THE SECOND I get OUT of this BLOODY THING, I'm going to make your life a living H-!"

"-Feel like giving this a pull, Johnnie?" Ed suggested, holding out the end of a phone cord. It had been wrapped several dozen times around the top of the chair and Marcus's chest, and was tied securely to one of the armrests.

"You know, Ed, I think I would." Johnnie said with a wry smile.

Taking one end of the cord in hand, he pulled. If Edward hadn't popped the wheels out of the chair's legs, all that would have done was yank him closer, but instead, the cord unwound, like thread off a spool, with the overall humorous effect of spinning Marcus faster…and faster… and faster still.

"Well, Marcus?" Ed said casually, rubbing his nails on his shirt, "You feeling a little queasy?"

He didn't answer, but his crude looks were certainly not improved by his current crimson flush. Whether it was from his rapid revolutions, or from murderous rage, Ed wasn't certain…

Johnnie braced himself, and took a firm hold of the wire…

The cord ran out of loops. Suddenly, the chair jerked to a stop, as the cable was pulled taut by Johnnie, bringing Marcus's ride to an abrupt (and disorienting) end.

"You…" Marcus blabbered, "you're all… urk!"

"We're all what?" Ed said, grinning derisively.

"You'r…urp…"

'_Barrf!_'

Ed's eyes flashed with victory, in the face of bullying oppression.

"Thought so."

…

"Young man, I will not say this again. We do not tolerate behavior like that! What're you, some kind of little hooligan?!"

Ed had been grabbed roughly by Letitia, and dragged out of the waiting room by the collar of his jacket. She was clearly livid, in the way that only small middle-aged witches could be. For some reason, she seemed to think it more important to get him to his appointment than to shout at him, which was interesting.

"Hey, lady! Last time I checked, I didn't have four legs and a tail, so I don't feel like being dragged around by the scuff of my neck! Let go!"

She ignored him, and continued to lead him down a carpeted, surprisingly long hallway. It seemed to get darker as he went.

They stopped in front of a monolithic wooden door. It was colossal, and thick. There were small carvings along the edges: chemical formulae for things like adenine tri-phosphate and mandrake extract, and the main panel, which at first Ed had taken to be just rather knobbly, covered in small bumps, revealed upon closer inspection to be thousands of overlapping carvings of a single symbol: a caduceus. The brass handle was equally large and impressive, Ed doubted that he could get his hand all the way around it.

"The doctor will see you now." Letitia intoned, in a voice and manner that would have had a lot more impact if it hadn't been said by a four-foot-nothing witch who wore too much makeup and waddled slightly when she walked.

Despite the absurdity of the situation, Ed couldn't help being just a little nervous. He was a good liar, but not a fantastic one, and if this doctor was smart enough, and made enough accurate guesses, the whole dirty truth might come spilling out. He'd be jailed, or "put under observation" for sure, and then everything would go bad. These wizards had _no idea _what they were dealing with.

The door creaked open.

"Come in, Ed." Said a calm, ordinary sort of voice, from the lightless depths of the room.

"We have a fair amount to talk about."

Ed felt a little twinge of fear, then steeled himself and walked in. The door shut behind him.

As soon as the wooden portal closed, a brilliant yellow-white light suffused the room.

There were shelves of books. There were strange things in bottles, with complicated labels. A stethoscope hung from a hook. There was a glass and stainless-steel container of tongue depressors acting as a bookend. Some X-rays were tacked to lightboards hung on the walls, normal save for how the subject's body slowly rotated in them, to show all angles. There was a hanging skeleton in the corner. There were charts. There were chairs. There was an expansive wooden desk, with a nameplate that said DR. ASCLEPIUS BURGESS. And seated across the table was a baby, with a mild expression.

In a tiny white lab coat.

"Er." Ed said. "Doctor?"

"Yes, Ed." The baby said, in the same tone of voice. "Nice to meet you."

"…"

Hmmm.


	11. Chapter 11

_Hi. Just want to send a brief shout-out to my fans who have stuck by my story (and especially those who have reviewed it) over these past years! It's been a while since I updated this story, but I have a feeling you're not really interested in excuses, so no worries. I'm clearly at fault :'( (Yes, I actually used a _smiley._ I have fallen into wicked ways indeed.) So then, once more into the breach, dear friends?_

_This chapter was a bit of a struggle for me. I had a choice between tacking on another scene here, but upon examination it seemed like it couldn't be achieved in anything less than six pages. That seemed to me to make the chapter drag on a bit, so it was included in a later update. But, oh well. Leave feedback, please! And, before I forget, Square Enix owns FMA, and J.K. _icantbelieveshewaseverunemployed _Rowling owns Harry Potter._

Chapter 11: English Way

"A FRICKEN' KID?!"

Dr. Burgess frowned. "Please Ed. There's no need for that tone."

"But you- You're- You look like you're-!"

"Every damn time…" the baby grumbled to himself, in an inexplicably deep voice. "Why can't people ever get past my physical appearance?" He appeared to be trying to massage the bridge of his nose, but, because an infant's head has about as many prominent surfaces as a melted gummi-bear, his tiny fingers were slipping off.

"Er, _what_?"

"Aren't infants still people? Do I not deserve the respect and dignity due to a man and doctor!?"

"How the hell can you even _be_ a doctor, if you haven't even been potty-trained yet!?"

The doctor attempted to level a reproving gaze at Ed.

It looked ridiculous.

"Edward, you shouldn't judge people based on how they appear! I assure you, I am one of the foremost professionals in my field, and my research is well respected!"

"Yeah? Ever present it in person?"

"That is entirely beside the-"

"-Thought not."

"ENOUGH! Edward, despite my current appearance, I am in fact sixty-seven years old! What you see before you is merely the… unfortunate side effect of an earlier experiment. It's purely superficial, my mind remains as keen as ever. Now can we please move on to the case at hand? Your case?"

"Nah, I don't think so."

"…Well, then, since you are unwilling to tell me anything, I will tell you what I know, and you may choose to fill in the blanks, or not. I leave it to your discretion. But, remember, it's in your best interests to correct any misconceptions we may have. There are _all sorts_ of possible situations that could arise, and be to your detriment, it we operate under faulty conclusions."

Ed sat back in the chair, impassive, with a careless air. But there was intensity there, too…

"What we know for certain about your condition is this: You recently happened upon magical powers, fifteen years later than they _should have_ manifested. From what I've been told, you have a very, almost worrisomely so, strong talent. You have absorbed a full year's curriculum in a matter of weeks, giving you an above-average, possibly genius-level intellect. You possess a unique prosthesis that is years, perhaps _decades_ beyond muggle technology. And you are an unusually capable fighter, tournament-caliber at least, though you appear largely self-taught. What do all of these things seem to indicate to you, Edward?"

Ed shifted to the side slightly, looking uncomfortable.

"Nothing? Well, I will tell you what they mean to me. They mean you are _unique_. That you stand out. That someone, anyone, who met you, would make a note of it. But there's the rub. There is no mention of you _anywhere_, Ed, in any records older than four weeks. No birth certificates. No hospital records or medical files. Not even a blip in the Ministry's Hall of the Archive. No one like you remains invisible for long, Edward. So, I'm at a loss, trying to determine exactly _where_ it is you come from."

"I wasn't born in a hospital." Ed lied, hoping to cut off any further inquiry. "I was home schooled. And my parents don't trust the government."

The doctor harrumphed, clearly unimpressed. "Nice try, Ed, but you see, those are exactly the kind of people the government pays _more _attention to."

The tow-headed alchemist said nothing, his face carefully expressionless.

"Now, here's what I think. Don't bother to reply, just listen."

The doctor took in a breath.

"You're not from here, are you, Ed?"

Ed showed his teeth in an easy grin, quickly obscuring the anxious flicker that his eyes had taken toward the door. But not quickly enough…

"Hmm. That seemed to hit home with you, Ed. Because that's just the problem with you, isn't it? Home. Your home city, your home country, your home… _reality?_"

_No way._

Ed gaped.

Sure, there were many incongruities in his history here, and in his story, but for this doctor to jump to that conclusion, so _quickly? _What kind of man was this Dr. Burgess? What kind of _mind_ did he possess?

"I said that I was a doctor, Ed, and that is true, I am. But, where my true abilities lie is not in medicine, which is the curing of diseases, but rather, the _diagnosing _of them. I can say, with perfect honesty and without fear of exaggeration, that I am the best diagnostician, magical or otherwise, in Europe. And the most likely conclusion for your identity is, as incredible as it sounds, that you are some sort of dimension-hopping being. I cannot say at this point whether you deliberately came here or not, regardless, you are smart enough not to reveal it for fear of imprisonment and experimentation."

He tapped his lips thoughtfully.

"That is a valid fear, by the way. I've spoken to a few mountain gorillas about it in the past and apparently that is why they only communicate with grunts and pointing when humans are around. …Well, that, and the bananas."

Ed kept a straight face. "Gorillas. The big monkeys with black hair and arms you could tie a hammock around?"

"Indeed. But as for you: No birth certificate under your given name, which means no hospitals, doctors, records, or you are using an assumed name. We can scratch the assumed name off the list of possibilities right away, you're too young to have changed yours legally, and until you can all magical letters and press will refer to you by the name your mother gave you. Your acceptance letter confirms your name as Edward Elric. Made things of a magical nature, even if they possess sentience, do not have proper names, it is one of the fundamental limitations of magic. So, you are not an automaton of any stripe, and were definitely born. You apparently lacked any sort of schooling in magic, so were not born to a wizarding family. Even if they carefully hid all evidence from you, they could not hide from the Ministry. But, there are no muggle families with access to prostheses such as yours, and no reports of catastrophic dismemberment or amputation to a youth matching your age and description in any muggle hospital for the last seventeen years. This is highly unlikely with your injuries, because skilled and immediate medical attention would have been needed to keep you from bleeding to death. Not to mention the sophisticated surgery needed to attach those prosthetics without scarring or infection. Somebody has to have known of you, or helped you."

Dr. Burgess templed his baby-carrot fingers, and continued.

"It was not any muggle government. They can't keep secrets well, and least of all from us. And it was not us. You could have been some new and bizarre experiment conducted by Voldemort in deepest secrecy, but if he wished to infiltrate Hogwarts he would have planted an agent much earlier or tapped someone already enrolled, instead of something so conspicuous as to cause the spontaneous arrival of a fifteen-year-old, let alone one with a metal arm and leg. You could also have been some sort of new soldier for him, gone rogue, but why would he use a boy not yet in his physical prime? And, let's not forget the incident at Hogwarts, with the assassin who was definitely targeting you, and those three Death Eaters you roughed up."

Ed looked up, surprised. "You know about that?"

"Of course I do. I had some difficulty in time-lining all confirmed events in the last couple of weeks after you came here, but thankfully one of my contacts told me you had been seen in the Leaky Cauldron in possession of a functional _Silver Arrow, _a very rare broom, and there was one registered under Maurice Dobbins' name. Combined with the unusual nature of the events which took place at his home, the connection was not hard to make. You need to learn how to cover your tracks, Ed, that reconstituted limestone block that you left out front was a dead giveaway."

Ed's face shut down.

"Yes, that brings us to the biggest secret that you've been carrying, Ed. Your…_gift_."

Edward didn't even move a hair, his eyes narrow and calculating. Teeth gritted.

"The shaping of substances around you into new and useful forms. It really is a remarkable talent. We don't have anything remotely close to it. With magic, you combine reagents and agents in a strictly specified way, and get results that are distinctly different from their components, save for in concept. We have to work through intermediaries. But you, you have the ability to work with substance itself. Do you have any idea what that makes you, Edward?"

"What?"

"You are potentially the most powerful person alive on this planet, at this moment."

"_What?!_"

"Edward, this next question is extremely important. You must answer me truthfully, because the consequences of a lie could be disastrous. _Millions _may die."

Ed wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he just contrived to look attentive.

"Ed, when you use your talent, how does it work?"

"What do you mean?"

"_I mean_, when you want to turn a cement block into cover, what happens? Does the limestone flow around you at your discretion, like pouring wax into a mold? Or do you somehow… _disassemble _the matter, then put it back together?"

"The second one, I think."

Dr. Burgess sucked in air, and rubbed his forehead. Clearly, the thing he had been worrying about had been confirmed.

"Wait, Doctor! Why is that so important?!"

The doctor smiled sadly, and said, "Unfortunately, Ed, if I were to tell you… It would make things worse. We can only hope that Voldemort remains as short-sighted and contemptuous of muggles as he has always been… or all is lost."

Ed was confused. Muggles? What did he mean? But his puzzlement did nothing to change his frustration.

"So…you don't trust me. I guess I can understand that."

"You _mis_understand, Edward…"

"You know what? Fine, whatever. Let's be _all mysterious_. It's not like I don't already know what happens when someone keeps secrets from me. _Oh, wait_!" The sarcastic edge on his voice buzzed like a saw.

He turned to face the doctor.

"And while we're at it, what the hell kind of doctor are you anyway? What kind of doctor has 'contacts in the Ministry'? Are you a spy or something?"

"…My history is not worth mentioning."

They stared at each other, tension strangling the air.

Ed spoke first.

"So, when am I going to get to see him?"

"Who, Ed?"

"Dumbledore."

This time, it was Burgess who looked taken aback.

"Dumbledore?" he replied carefully.

"I have to pay my respects, don't I?"

Burgess relaxed slightly, in a way which only served to gently underline the brief moment of stress that preceded it.

"Ah… At this point, things are still, well… I don't know. It's all flapping loose."

"Is there a memorial service planned?"

"It's…" He trailed off.

"Burgess, _what the hell is going on here!?_ Why is nobody talking about this? Is Dumbledore really _dead!?_"

The puerile physician stiffened, and in a voice tinged with despair, answered.

"_Yes_. Yes, Edward. I'm very much afraid he is." A ring of truth threaded through those words.

"Oh. I- …oh."

The desperate hope he had carefully stoked in his heart fell down delicately and was ruined, a lacy feather meeting dirty wet pavement.

"This Tuesday. There will be a procession in Hogsmeade. It'll take him to the Green Sward in front of… He picked it out years ago, wanted to stay where he most felt at, at home, and…"

"I…see."

"All students are invited. There will be a reserved section in front, and-"

Ed wasn't listening any longer. Everything felt unreal, like a dream. At least, in the headmaster's room, he had felt _anger_, _rage_. As long as he was feeling something, as long as he had a problem to solve, he could avoid thinking about, about _everything_ he had lost, about the people who died. But now, he felt nothing. Was this shock? It was ridiculous, he had barely known the man a month!

But that wasn't really true, was it? There were things about him…

Like the sense of well-being he felt just from having him around, the knowledge that he was _safe_, even for a moment… He had been a hierophant, a comrade, a mischievous teacher.

And there was empathy, undeniable, that he had felt for him. Something that told him that they weren't very different at all. He had been a prodigy, set apart, just like him.

Just like Ed, he had had a reason, a driving cause to be good, _better _than everyone else. His brilliance pushed him onward, mercilessly, past all of his peers, and then colleagues, and esteemed brethren, to the point where there _were no more peers_, just awe and unapproachable reputation. Perhaps he found someone early, if he was lucky, someone that shared his ability (Ed though of Al instinctively), to reflect and double his shine. And then, somewhere along the dazzling arc that was the career of Albus Dumbledore, something horrible happened to him. Something that sobered him, and served as the last quenching plunge that turned him into the person he was. Maybe it was a loss. Maybe it was a fight. And _just_ maybe, it was both.

How lonely he must have been…

"-to carry on as we always had. And in that spirit, Ed, I will ask you if you are able to continue your lessons."

Ed snapped back to the present. "What?"

"The preparatory work that you were finishing. Can you complete it? Say, here?"

"I don't know." Ed said, dazedly. "I suppose. Is your ceiling armored? Last time I tried _Wingardium_, I holed Tom's bar with a stone."

"You- _What_ happened to the stone, Ed?"

Something about his voice fully caught Ed's attention.

"It flew straight up. Or was, ah, _launched _straight up. It went through the roof."

"Huh. And you said that a _levitating charm_ did this?"

"Yeah."

Burgess looked interestedly at Ed, clearly glad for the change in direction. "Hmm… Well, I can't say I've ever heard of too _much _arcane potential being a problem, although I do see a fair bit of business from those with too little. Thankfully, this is something that is fairly easy to test. Do you see that blue glass ball on the shelf? The one with the metal dial. Pick it up, please."

Ed looked about, then saw the device the doctor was talking about, sitting innocuously about three feet from a book titled "The Wizard's Plight: Five Hand Exercises for the Management of Carpal Tunnel.".

It was a fat blob of cobalt glass, about the size of a bocce ball. Sticking out of the top was a wire-thin golden needle, and as he looked, he could see the polished gauge, with increments marked off in bizarre symbols and glyphs, where the metal met the almost-liquid smoothness of the material.

He hefted it in one hand. It was surprisingly heavy, and _cold_, like it had just come out of a freezer.

"Yes, that's it. Just hold it for now. It's self-calibrating, you see. In just a moment…"

A flickering blue light, like a torch somehow seen through a hundred feet of water, grew in the absolute center of the device. It started to hum, a deep low sound, more _felt_ than heard.

The golden needle began to deflect subtly back and forth.

Thankfully, it was slowly warming, thawing Ed's numb fingers.

The light, growing, as a train's does as it approaches closer, was now the size of an egg. The needle was now at about a 45-degree angle from its initial position.

"See, there you are. An average _Thaumopotence_ rating. Nothing to be-"

But the needle hadn't stopped moving. The light inside was getting closer, and brighter, and the humming was rising, vibrating inside of Ed's ribcage, becoming more insistent, more droning… The glass was now uncomfortably hot.

"That's fine Ed, you can put it down now." Said Dr. Burgess anxiously.

The needle had gone as far as it could go. But that wasn't enough. Ed watched, fascinated, as the magic of the device slowly began to _bend the needle itself_, like a psychic's spoon… There was a weak little _snap _as it broke off and flew through the air...

"Ed… ED! DROP IT! ED!"

Ed couldn't hear him. The radiance inside was a _sun_, a _supernova_, a ball of _furious incandescent_ _brilliance_. The drone was the roar of a jet engine at three feet away, the eruption of a volcano. He tried to let it slip, but his arm wouldn't obey his commands, it was somewhere far away, held in place by the light and noise and heat.

He saw the blisters forming on his hand, as the heat of it passed the point where hot and cold could be discerned by his body, and just became overwhelming sensation…

With a roar of anger, Ed swung his other arm, and smacked it from his grip. It flew, hitting the ground and rolling into a corner.

Instantly, the light within it died, the cacophony bled away, to be replaced by the shivering little sounds of thousands of spreading cracks, cob-webbing the once-clear blue glass.

Ed looked at his hand. Throbbing red weals covered the inside of his palm and fingers.

"What." He began, "The hell. Was _that!?_"

Dr. Burgess, blinking away the purple spots dancing in front of his eyes, seemed completely mollified.

"I-I'm not sure, Ed. I've never seen a reaction that _violent _before…"

He nervously rubbed his fingers over his chin, back and forth…

"If I were to guess, I would say that…that…"

His fingers stopped.

"Oh. Of course. _How obvious_. Heh. Convenient, yes, this _is _convenient, isn't it? A proof of concept. And an explanation, too!"

"What?" Ed exclaimed, exasperated. "What is it?"

The doctor seemed quite pleased with himself. "Where do you suppose magic comes from, Ed?"

Ed shrugged. "Well, my first theory was that it was all a great big load of sh-, er, _lies_, but the jury's still out on that one. Ah, do you have any burn ointment?"

Dr. Burgess smiled. "Well, Ed, unlike where you come from, magic here exists as a force, as gravity does. All particles in the universe generate, and are susceptible to gravity. Now, imagine for a second the core, the essence or consciousness of a being was, in fact, a particle. Particles generate different quantities of gravity, depending on their mass. Similarly, conscious beings, as well as other kinds of matter; particles, if you will, generate and utilize magic according to their own… potential. As for why spellcraft and the like _seems_ to contradict the laws of physics, that is easily explained. Although gravity and electromagnetism are forces, they have to obey _different_, _internally consistent_ rules, as accorded by their nature. These rules _can_ contradict each other, even though their existence is integral to the overall functioning of the cosmos. The laws of gravity says that a MagLev train should touch the ground, but the laws of electromagnetism _oppose _and _overrule _it, if they possess enough strength. Similarly, magic-users can overrule the other laws of the universe, as long as sufficient force is used and as long as we act according to magic's principles, in a way that does not destroy them."

"That's great. Now, how does that affect me, again? Oh, and also, _ow._"

"When you crossed over into this universe, instead of it collapsing due to your anomalous and logically impossible presence, the world started treating you exactly as it would have _if_ _you had been born here_. Evidentially, your essence is one that, if it had existed naturally in this world, you would have been a wizard by birth. But there's a problem. A wizard who is fifteen years old, all of that time having been spent in _this_ universe, with a fairly average ability, whether through spell or spontaneous manifestation _should have expended fifteen years worth of magic by now! _And clearly, since this _has not happened_, in order to remain consistent, all of that magic has _accrued_ around you, waiting to be used!You're working with a surfeit of effectively one and a half _decades _worth of arcane potential! That's why you destroyed my instrument, it simply _couldn't handle_ the task. And _no wonder!_"

A gloomy look crossed his face. "That cost me a small fortune, you know. It'll take me _months _to secure another load of meteor sand. And you wouldn't _believe_ what those goblin crystal-blowers charge. It's highway robbery, it is. Terrible, how these things conspire against the small practice-owner-"

"-Hey, doc." Ed said.

"Hmm?"

Ed held up his burned hand.

"OH! I'm terribly sorry Ed, I was carried away… The red and white jar on the second shelf."

Trying not to look too hurried, Ed ran to it, and slathered on the thick green gel it contained. To his relief, the pain faded almost instantly.

"Ed, I'm sure you knew that Dumbledore's original plan called for you to attend Hogwarts as a first year student. With everything that's happened, do you still feel that you can finish you preparatory work in time for the school year?"

"I… yes, I can." Studying was the only thing he had ever been sure of. No matter what, learning more had always helped in the past. And he was _good_ at it.

"Good, that's… good. You are prepared for the work, that's the most important thing… But this backlog business, it makes things dangerous, for you and your classmates. We simply _cannot_ let you walk around with that kind of power."

Ed, looking at his hand as the medicinal goo slowly evaporated off, leaving only healthy pink skin behind, nodded in agreement. "You're right. Is there something I can do?"

Burgess thought for a minute, then replied. "Well, there is something…"

He opened a little drawer near his hand, and pulled out a wand that was clearly a few sizes too big for him to grip properly. With an exaggerated clasped-hands approach, he managed to hold on to the wand, and waved it in a crude figure-eight.

A much larger drawer from a standing file on the other side of the room rolled out. A small box, about the size of a paperback novel, floated up from inside it, and whisked over to the doctor, landing neatly in front on him.

He pulled out a little iron hoop, only two inches in diameter. Fastened on the inside of the circle were eight slightly-stretched fine metal springs placed equally distant from each other, coming together in the middle like spokes. At the hub where all the coils met was what looked like a small, pitted black pebble.

"The stone in the center is a chunk of very dense iron ore. Here."

He tossed it to Ed, who caught it easily.

"Try shaking it."

Ed did. He immediately noted how the springs would extend and contract according to the way he shook it. As his hand finished moving one way, and started back, the lodestone would keep on going for a little bit, as the springs gave it enough give to sling back and forth.

"Feels strange, doesn't it? Like it has a little more momentum than it should?"

He nodded.

"Yes, well, as you know, inertia is the force which resists change. Magic is change. The form of this object, along with the enchantments on it, makes it very difficult for anyone possessing it to perform any magic. Like trying to swing a bat with a heavy weight on it. It's normally used for rehabilitation for wizards or witches with little to no power, so that they can learn to use what they _do_ have more effectively, but in your case, it's more of a protective item. We call it a _Limiter. _It used to be called _Professor Spirrid Squidge's Squib Strainer_, after the creator, but we decided to rename it once he moved to Tanzania."

"Why?"

"Try saying it three times fast."

"Oh." "Okay then."

"I'll have one built into an everyday item that wouldn't look out of place on a wizard. That way, no one will know about its existence except for you and me. I'll send it to you, with instructions on its use, once it's complete. In the meantime, use this one to finish your preparations. Professor McGonagall should see you back to your lodgings."

…

The days before Dumbledore's funeral came and went quickly. Ed threw himself into his work. He developed deep circles under his eyes, forgot meals, and went without sleep. Tom became used to seeing him working at the desk in the morning, in the same position he had been in at closing.

The deep pall that Dumbledore's passing had cast was all but impenetrable. Business was even worse than when Voldemort had been at the height of his terrible power. It was as if all London's magical denizens were in mourning. Even Skullcrusher Stevens, a man who would willingly fight _anyone_, and on three separate occasions had gone mano-a-mano with a nun, barely had the spirit to throw a halfhearted punch at Tom after his fifth round.

There were worse things to come.

…

It was gray and raining, the day that they buried the headmaster.

It was Ed's first time in Hogsmeade. Closely packed buildings boasting the highly sloped roofs of residents familiar with the ravages of winter were interspersed with earnest cobblestone streets, the cobbles set in spirals and whorls, which meandered in an easy looping way through the town. The village was the only place in Britain exclusively populated by magical denizens. Of course, this meant that everyone knew what day it was. Windows of shops, which most likely would have offered glimpses of exotic and wonderful goods, were shuttered. Black curtains hung in every awning.

The rain was cold and heavy, and he stood in a field of somber umbrellas.

Unfortunately the slow trudge from the portkey link to the main thoroughfare had had him wading through puddles and pools, so that it felt like his pants had been soaked through all the way up to his calves. The _Limiter_'s weight in his pocket had become familiar by now, but it, as always, seemed far heavier than it should be, and thudded dully against the outside of his thigh with each step.

A giant, familiar silhouette appeared before him. Ed cheered slightly at the sight, but the grim nature of the occasion tamped back down the momentary brevity.

"Hagrid!"

The massive shape turned, surprised.

"Har- Ed! I din't know ye-yeh were comin'."

Ed sobered more fully. Hagrid's great hairy face was streaked with fat tears, his beard even matted down in places with them. Although he had pasted a smile over his mouth, his shoulders were still convulsing with the force of unsubtle sobs.

The guilt hit him like a heart attack.

"Hagrid, I'm so sorry." He managed around the sudden tightness in his chest.

This was apparently enough to break Hagrid's paper-thin emotional reserve.

Instead of replying, Hagrid wrapped him up in a sudden an overwhelming bear hug that knocked out Ed's remaining air. Ed felt a twinge from his ribs reminding him that, yes, while they were completely healed, thank you very much, they could certainly be persuaded to break again. His patting on Hagrid's shoulder wasn't so much an expression of sympathy as a wrestling submission.

Hagrid released him, still blubbering. It would have seemed ridiculous in other circumstances, this overwhelming show of sadness, absurd to the point of hilarity.

But Ed wouldn't laugh now.

Dumbledore was dead.

"Hagrid, I want to… Where's Harry?"

Hagrid pointed noiselessly with one colossal hand, towards the front. There was a standing section there, walled off with pale gold banisters and black velvet ropes. A plain sign said simply 'Reserved: Hogwarts Students'

"Thanks." Ed elbowed his way to the front. Ordinarily, there would be all manner of protest to this kind of maneuver, but the people he wormed through seemed to honestly be too distraught to care.

He made it to the front. As he was wondering how to get past the ropes, either by ducking underneath them, or jumping, both of which seeming to be unforgivable breaches of decorum in this solemnity, the rope he was standing in front of unhooked itself with a stately grace, and moved aside as if held by an invisible usher.

Ed walked through, marveling even then that Dumbledore must have already put him on the school's registry. He had thought of him as a student even then… when something Ed had brought with him killed him.

The students, under no-one's direction but perhaps out of a desire for the comfort of familiarity, had sorted themselves into their Houses. They wore uniform black dress robes, yet the color of their scarves gave them away. Ed recognized the blue and bronze of Ravenclaw, the yellow and black of Hufflepuff, the (notably fewer) green and silver of the Slytherin, and lastly, the massive swell of gold and crimson that was Griffindor.

Ed saw a glimpse of flame-red hair.

_That would be Ron_, Ed thought to himself.

He worked his way over. Although he had discarded his red hoodie in favor of a black wool coat and his dark undergarments, which he had come to understand resembled those of a priest of the Christo-Judean Church in this world, he still drew some attention from others. Most, however, were lost in private thoughts or huddled conversation.

He discovered that the red-headed boy he had seen was not, in fact, Ron, but the family resemblance was so close as to be extraordinary…

"Excuse me?"

The boy turned to him. He had a face that looked like it was more accustomed to laughter than sadness, but there was no mirth there, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

"Yeah?" It was more of a croak than a voice.

"I'm looking for Ron Weasely. You look so similar…are you related? And do you know where he is?"

" 'M Fred. He's my brother. I think he's over there, someplace." He gestured vaguely.

"Ah… thanks." What else could he say?

He saw Ron at the same time as he saw Harry and Hermione. What he would talk to them about now, he didn't know, but for some reason he felt he _had _to.

He walked a slow walk to their company.

…

Harry felt like… to be honest, Harry didn't feel much of anything.

The last couple days, Harry and his friends had busied themselves with rampant speculation and investigation, using the information they'd gained from their brief reconnaissance at Hogwarts and whispered bits of fact and rumor. They'd exhausted every angle, tried every kind of inquiry in a flurry of activity, but try as they might, they had to sleep sometime. And when they did, the thought always came to them just before their eyes closed, _It doesn't matter what we do now. He's gone_. And day by day, the springs and twisted lengths of elastic which drove them slowly gave up and petered out in fruitlessness. Now even despair seemed gone.

Harry was a shell in a land of ghosts.

He felt a tap on his shoulder.

Harry turned around, to come face to face with someone he'd last seen tracking red footprints down the marble hallway of Hogwarts, away from the murdered body of his mentor.

"Hi, Harry."

" 'Lo, Ed. I didn't know you'd be here."

"I…" _killed him _"had to pay my respects. He- well, Dumbledore-" Oh, wonderful, now he was bending the sentence into a pretzel to try to avoid using a past-tense verb… He was really not in the game…

There was a low and mournful sound. It sounded strange, haunting, pervasive, like a combination of a morning doves's call, but warbled and modulated in ways that made it stretch out and double back on itself… It was nothing less than absolute sadness expressed through the air.

There was a sudden unrest among the crowd.

A rough whisper from Hermione brought Harry and Ed's attention back to current events.

"_Harry, it's starting!" _She shot Ed a small look of acknowledgement, then stared out into the street.

The procession was moving. At first, there was a marching regiment wizards wearing robes emblazoned with military-seeming honors and medals. It took some puzzling out, but Ed soon realized that they must be Aurors in dress uniform. And then came coaches.

Harry halfway expected something outrageous and flamboyant, as seemed to typify wizard style, but reserve was the watchword of the day. The coaches were plain black, simple, although they were each pulled by Thestrals, spectral horses with dark and strange powers. There were small emblems on the coach doors which neither Ed nor Harry had seen before. Harry spent a minute studying one absently, a shield emblazoned with crossed wands, each emanating three stars from their tips.

The source of the shapeless dirge approached closer. To Harry's surprise, they were not musicians with instruments, but beautiful, blond women. Although no tears stained their cheeks, Harry had a feeling that each of them were trying to express with their voices the pain their strange, almost birdlike faces could not show.

They moved on. The moment that he had been dreading. The Headmaster's coffin.

It was pulled, not in a hearse, but an open rig, piled high with flowers. Ed smelled their fragrance from here, crisp and unmistakable in the raw air. And rising up from them, emerging as a rock wreathed with surf, was the casket. Long and ivory-white, with bits of silver metal on the corners. Laying over it was a pall that, Harry recognized with a start, was the banner of the school, embroidered with shining thread which stood out like a spark against the bleak backdrop that was the rest of this funerary parade.

And then the screaming started.


End file.
